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« * 












THE SUN 
OF SARATOGA 


H IRomance ot JSurgogne’a Surcen&er 


JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER 



NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
1897 



Copyright, 1897, 

By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — On watch 

II. — A LIGHT IN THE WINDOW l6 

III. — A SHOT FROM THE WINDOW . ... 2 g 

IV. — Out of the house 49 

V. — My superior officer 62 

VI. — Belt’s ghost 77 

VII. — In Burgoyne’s camp 91 

VIII. — A night under fire 108 

IX. — My guide 118 

• 

X. — The sun of Saratoga 132 

XI. — The night after 143 

XII. — We ride southward 155 

XIII. — We meet the fleet 169 

XIV. — The pursuit of Chudleigh .... 186 

XV. — The taking of Chudleigh .... 199 

XVI. — The return with Chudleigh. . . . 219 

XVII. — My thanks 232 

XVIII. — The battle of the guns 246 

XIX. — The man from Clinton 259 

XX. — Not a drop to drink 274 

XXI. — The messenger 295 

XXII. — Capitulations 310 







THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


CHAPTER I. 

ON WATCH. 

“ You will watch this hollow and the hill 
yonder,” said the general, “ and see that not 
a soul passes either to the north or to the 
south. Don’t forget that the fate of all the 
colonies may depend upon your vigilance.” 

Then he left me. 

I felt much discomfort. I submit that it is 
not cheering to have the fate of thirteen large 
colonies and some two or three million people, 
men, women, and children, depend upon one’s 
own humble self. I like importance, but not 
when it brings such an excess of care. 

I looked to Sergeant Whitestone for cheer. 

“ We are not the only men on watch to cut 
off their messengers,” he said. “ We have our 
bit of ground here to guard, and others have 
theirs.” 

x 


2 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


Then he sat down on the turf and smoked 
his pipe with provoking calm, as if the troubles 
of other people were sufficient to take our own 
away. I decided to stop thinking about failure 
and address myself to my task. Leaving the 
sergeant and the four men who constituted 
my small army, I took a look about me. The 
hollow was but a few hundred yards across, 
sparse-set with trees and bushes. It should not 
be difficult to guard it by day, but by night 
it would be a different matter. * On the hill 
I could see the walls and roof of the Van Au- 
ken house. That, too, fell within my terri- 
tory, and for reasons sufficient to me I was sorry 
of it. 

I walked part of the way up the hillside, 
spying out the ground and seeing what places 
for concealment there might be. I did not 
mean to be lax in my duty in any particular. 
I appreciated its full import. The great idea 
that we might take Burgoyne and his whole 
army was spreading among us, and it was 
vital that no news of his plight should 
reach Clinton and the other British down 
below us. 

I came back to Sergeant Whitestone, who 


ON WATCH. 


3 


was still sitting on the ground, puffing out 
much smoke, and looking very content. 

“ I don’t think we need fear any attempt 
to get through until night,” he said. “ The 
dark is the time for messengers who don’t want 
to be seen.” 

I agreed with him, and found a position of 
comfort upon the grass. 

“ There’s our weak point,” said the ser- 
geant, waving his hand toward the Van Auken 
house. 

I was sorry to hear him say so, especially 
as I had formed the same opinion. 

“ But there’s nobody up there except 
women,” I said. 

“ The very reason,” replied the sergeant. 

I occupied myself for a little while tossing 
pebbles at a tree. Then I disposed my men at 
suitable distances along our line, and concluded 
to go up to' the house, which going, in good 
truth, was part of my duty. 

I was near the top of the hill when I saw 
Kate Van Auken coming to meet me. 

“ Good morning, Dick,” she said. 

“ Good morning, Mistress Catherine,” I re- 
plied. 


4 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


It had been my habit to call her Kate when 
we were children together, but I could not 
quite manage it now. 

“ You are set as a guard upon us? ” she said. 

“ To protect you from harm,” I replied with 
my most gallant air. 

“ Your manners are improving,” she said in 
what I thought rather a disdainful tone. 

“ I must search the house,” I continued. 

“ You call that protecting us? ” she said 
with the same touch of sarcasm. 

“ Nevertheless it must be done,” I said, 
speaking in my most positive manner. 

She led the way without further demur. 
Now I had every confidence in Kate Van Au- 
ken. I considered her as good a patriot as 
myself, though all her family were Tory. It 
did not seem to me to be at all likely that any 
spy or messenger of the British had reached 
the concealment of the house, but it was my 
duty to be sure. 

“ Perhaps you would not care to talk to my 
mother? ” she asked. 

“No!” I replied in such haste that she 
laughed. 

I knew Madame Van Auken was one of the 


ON WATCH. 


5 


most fanatic Tories in New York colony, and I 
had no mind to face her. It is curious how 
women are more hard-set than men in these 
matters. But in my search of the house I was 
compelled to pass through the room where she 
sat, most haughty and severe. Kate explained 
what I was about. She never spoke to me, 
though she had known me since I was a baby, 
but remained rigid in her armchair and glow- 
ered at me as if I were a most wretched villain. 
I confess that I felt very uncomfortable, and 
was glad when we passed on to another room. 

As I had expected, I found nothing sus- 
picious in the house. 

“ I hope you are satisfied? ” said Miss Van 
Auken when I left. 

“ For the present,” I replied, bowing. 

I rejoined Sergeant Whitestone in the hol- 
low. He was still puffing at his pipe, and I do 
not think he had changed his position by the 
breadth of a hair. I told him I had found 
nothing at the house, and asked what he 
thought of the case. 

“ We may look for work to-night, I think,” 
he replied very gravely. “ It’s most likely that 
the British will try to send somebody through 


6 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


at this point. All the Van Aukens, except the 
women, are with Burgoyne, and as they know 
the ground around here best they’ll go to Bur- 
goyne and have him send the men this way.” 

That was my thought too. Whitestone is 
a man of sound judgment. I sent two of our 
lads toward the house, with instructions to 
watch it, front and rear. It was my intent to 
visit them there later. 

Then I joined Whitestone in a friendly pipe 
and found much consolation in the good to- 
bacco. Kate’s manner had nettled me the least 
bit, but I reflected that perhaps she was justi- 
fied, as so many of her people were with Bur- 
goyne, and, moreover, she was betrothed to 
Chudleigh, an Englishman. Chudleigh, an offi- 
cer with Try on in New York before the war, 
had come down from Canada with Burgoyne. 
So far as I knew he had passed safely through 
the last battle. 

I had naught in particular against Chud- 
leigh, but it seemed to me that he might find a 
wife in his own country. 

The day was slow. I would rather have been 
with the army, where there was bustle and the 
hope of great things, but Whitestone, a pack of 


ON WATCH. 


7 


lazy bones, grunted with content. He stretched 
his long body on the ground and stared up at the 
sky through half-closed eyes. A mellow sun 
shone back at him. 

Toward noon I sent one of the men to the 
house with a request for some small supply of 
provision, if they could spare it. We had food, 
a little, but we wanted more. Perhaps I ought 
to have gone myself, but I had my reasons. 
The man came back with two roast chickens. 

“ The old lady gave me a blessing,” he said 
with a sour face, “ and said she’d die before 
she’d feed rebels against the best king that ever 
lived; but the girl gave me these when I came 
out the back way.” 

We ate our dinner, and then I changed the 
sentinels at the house. Whitestone relapsed 
into his apparent lethargy, but I knew that the 
man, despite his seeming, was all vigilance and 
caution. 

We looked for no happenings before dark, 
but it was yet a good four hours to set of sun 
when we heard a noise in the south and saw 
some dust rising far down the hollow. 

Sergeant Whitestone rose quickly to his 
feet, smothered the fire in his pipe, and put 


8 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


his beloved companion in an inside pocket of 
his waistcoat. 

“ A party coming,” I said. 

“ Yes, and a lot of ’em, too, I think,” he 
replied, “ or they wouldn’t raise so much dust.” 

One of the men ran down from the hill where 
the view was better, and announced that a large 
body of soldiers was approaching. I called 
all the others and we stood to our arms, though 
we were convinced that the men marching were 
our own. Either the British would come with 
a great army or not at all. 

The approaching troops, two hundred at 
least, appeared down the valley. The dust en- 
cased them like armor, and one can not tell 
what a soldier is by the dirt on his uniform. 
Whitestone took one long and critical look and 
then unbuttoned his coat and drew out his 
pipe. 

“ What are they? ” I asked. 

“ Virginians,” he replied. “ I know their 
stride. I’ve served with ’em. Each step they 
take is exactly two inches longer than ours. 
They got it hunting ’possums at night.” 

They were in loose order like men who have 
marched far, but their faces were eager, and 


ON WATCH. 


9 

they were well armed. We halted them, as our 
duty bade us, and asked who they were. 

“ Re-enforcements for the Northern army,” 
said the captain at their head. He showed us an , 
order from our great commander-in-chief him- 
self. 

“ Where is Burgoyne? ” he asked as soon as 
I had finished the letter. “ Is he still coming 
south? ” 

“ He is but a few miles beyond you,” I re- 
plied, “ and he will come no farther south. 
There has been a great battle and we held him 
fast.” 

They gave a cheer, and some threw up their 
hats. To understand our feelings one must re- 
member that we had been very near the edge 
of the ice, and more than once thought we 
would go over. 

All their weariness gone, these long-legged 
Southerners shouldered their rifles and marched 
on to join the great belt of strong arms and 
stout hearts that was forming around the 
doomed Burgoyne and his army. As they # 
passed, Sergeant Whitestone took his pipe out 
of his mouth and said: 

“ Good boys!” 


IO 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


Which was short, but which was much for 
him. 

I watched their dusty backs as they tramped 
up the valley. 

“ You seem to admire them,” said some one 
over my shoulder. 

“ It is they and their fellows who will take 
Burgoyne, Mistress Catherine,” I replied. 

“ They can’t stand before the British bayo- 
net,” she said. 

“ Sorry to dispute the word of so fair a 
lady,” I replied, meaning to be gallant, “ but I 
was at the last battle.” 

She laughed, as if she did not think much 
of my words. She said no more, but watched 
the marching Virginians. I thought I saw a 
little glow as of pride come in her face. They 
curved around a hill and passed out of sight. 

“Good-by!” said Mistress Kate. “That’s 
all I wanted to see here.” 

She went back to the house and we resumed 
our tedious watch. Whitestone had full war- 
rant for his seeming apathy. After the passage 
of the Virginians there was naught to stir us in 
the slightest. Though born and bred a country- 
man, I have never seen anything more quiet and 


ON WATCH. 


I 


peaceful than that afternoon, although two 
large armies lay but a short distance away, rest- 
ing from one bloody battle and waiting for an- 
other. 

No one moved at the house. Everybody 
seemed to be asleep there. Some birds chat- 
tered undisturbed in the trees. The air had 
the crisp touch of early autumn, and faint 
tokens of changing hues were appearing al- 
ready in the foliage. I felt a sleepy languor 
like that which early spring puts into the blood. 
In order to shake it off I began a thorough 
search of the country thereabouts. I pushed 
my way through the bushes, and tramped both 
to the north and to tfye south as far as I dared 
go from my post. Then I visited the guards 
who adjoined my little detachment on either 
side. They had to report only the same calm 
that prevailed at our part of the line. I went 
back to Sergeant Whitestone. 

“ Better take it easy,” advised he. “ When 
there’s nothing to do, do it, and then be fresh 
to do it when there’s something to do.” 

I took his advice, which seemed good, and 
again made myself comfortable on the ground, 
waiting for the coming of the night. It was still 


12 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


an hour to set of sun when we saw a mounted 
officer coming from the north where our army 
lay. We seemed to be his destination, as he rode 
straight toward us. I recognized Captain Mar- 
tyn at once. I did not like this man. I had no 
particular reason for it, though I have found 
often that the lack of reason for doing a thing 
is the very strongest reason why we do it. I 
knew little about Captain Martyn. He had 
joined the Northern army before I arrived, and 
they said he had done good service, especially 
in the way of procuring information about the 
enemy. 

Whitestone and I sat together on the grass. 
The other men were on guard at various points. 
Captain Martyn came on at a good pace until 
he reached us, when he pulled up his horse with 
a smart jerk. 

“ Your watch is over,” he said to me with- 
out preliminary. “ You are to withdraw with 
your men at once.” 

I was taken much aback, as any one else in 
my place would have been also. I had received 
instructions to keep faithful guard over that 
portion of the line for the long period of twenty- 
four hours— that is, until the next morning. 


ON WATCH. 


3 


“ But this must be a mistake,” I protested. 
“ There is nobody to relieve us. Surely the gen- 
eral can not mean to leave the line broken at 
this point.” 

“•If you have taken the direction of the 
campaign, perhaps you had best notify our gen- 
erals that they are superseded,” he said in a 
tone most ironical. 

He aroused my stubbornness, of which some 
people say I have too much, and I refused to 
retire until he showed me a written order to 
that effect from the proper officer. Not 
abating his ironical manner one whit, he 
held it toward me in an indifferent way, 
as much as to say, “ You can read it or 
not, just as you choose; it does not matter 
to me.” 

It was addressed to me, and notified me 
briefly to withdraw at once with my men and 
rejoin my company, stationed not less than ten 
miles away. Everything, signature included, 
was most proper, and naught was left for me 
to do but to obey. The change was no affair 
of mine. 

“ Does that put your mind at rest? ” asked 
Martyn. 


14 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ No, it does not,” I replied, “ but it takes 
responsibility from me.” 

Sergeant Whitestone called the men, and as 
we marched over the hill Martyn turned his 
horse and galloped back toward the army. 
When he had passed out of sight behind the 
trees I ordered the men to stop. 

“ Whitestone,” said I to the sergeant, who, 
as I have said before, was a man of most acute 
judgment, “ do you like this? ” 

“ Small liking have I for it,” he replied. “ It 
is the most unmilitary proceeding I ever knew. 
It may be that our relief is coming, but it should 
have arrived before we left.” 

I took out the order again, and after 
scanning it with care passed it to White- 
stone. 

Neither of us could see anything wrong 
with it. But the sergeant’s manner confirmed 
me in a resolution I had taken before I put the 
question to him. 

“ Sergeant,” I said, “ every man in our army 
knows of what great import it is that no mes- 
senger from the British should get through our 
lines. We are leaving unguarded a place wide 
enough for a whole company to pass. I think 


ON WATCH. 


15 

I’ll go back there and resume guard. Will you 
go with me? ” 

He assented with most cheerful alacrity, and 
when I put the question to the others, stating 
that I left them to do as they pleased, all joined 
me. For what they believed to be the good of 
the cause they were willing to take the risks 
of disobedience, and I was proud of them. 

I looked about me from the crest of the hill, 
but Martyn was out of sight. We returned to 
the valley and I posted my men in the same 
positions as before, my forebodings that it 
would be a night of action increased by this 
event. 


CHAPTER II. 


A LIGHT IN THE WINDOW. 

Two of my men were stationed near the 
house, but I had so placed them that they could 
not be seen by any one inside. I had also con- 
cealed our return from possible watchers there. 
I had an idea, which I confided to Whitestone, 
and in which, with his usual sound sense, he 
agreed with me. He and I remained together 
in the valley and watched the night come. 

The sun seemed to me to linger long at the 
edge of the far hills, but at last his red rim went 
out of sight, and the heavy darkness which pre- 
cedes the moonlight fell upon the earth. 

“ If anything happens, it will happen soon,” 
said Whitestone. 

That was obvious, because if Martyn medi- 
tated treachery, it would be important for him 
to carry it out before, the unguarded point in 
the line was discovered. Officially it was un- 


A LIGHT IN THE WINDOW. 


17 

guarded, because we were supposed to have 
gone away and stayed away. 

My suspicions were confirmed by the non- 
arrival of our relief. Whitestone still took his 
ease, stretched out on the ground in the valley. 
I knew he missed his pipe, but to light it would 
serve as a warning in the dark to any one. I 
visited the two men near the house and cau- 
tioned them to relax their watch in no particu- 
lar. 

The night was now well begun and I could 
see no great distance. As I turned away from 
the last man I chanced to look up at the house, 
whose shape was but a darker shadow in the 
darkness. At a narrow window high up, where 
the sloping eaves converged, I saw a light. Per- 
haps I would* not have thought much of it, but 
the light was moved from side to side with 
what seemed to me to be regular and deliberate 
motion. It faced the north, where our army 
lay. 

I walked twenty steps or so, still keeping 
the light in view. Its regular swinging motion 
from side to side did not cease, and I could not 
persuade myself that it was not intended as a 
signal to some one. The discovery caused in 


8 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


me a certain faintness at the heart, for until this 
night I had thought Kate Van Auken, despite 
mother, brother, and all else, was a true friend 
to our cause through all. 

I own I was in great perplexity. At first 
I was tempted to enter the house, smash the 
light, and denounce her in my most eloquent 
language. But I quickly saw the idea was but 
folly, and would stand in the way of our own 
plans. I leaned against an oak tree and kept 
my eyes fixed on the light. Though the win- 
dows in the house were many, no other light 
was visible, which seemed strange to me, for it 
was very early. Back and forth it swung, and 
then it was gone with a suddenness which made 
me rub my eyes to see if it were not still there; 
nothing ailed them. The building was a huge 
black shadow, but no light shone from it any- 
where. 

I went in a mighty hurry to Whitestone and 
told him what I had seen. He loosened the 
pistol in his belt and said he thought the time 
for us to make discoveries had come. Once 
more I agreed with him. 

I drew my own pistol, that it might be ready 
to my hand, if need be, and we walked a bit 


A LIGHT IN THE WINDOW. 


19 


up the valley. It was very dark and we trusted 
more to our ears than to our eyes, in which trust 
we were not deceived, for speedily we heard a 
faint but regular thump, thump, upon the earth. 

“ A horse coming,” I said. 

“ And probably a horseman, too,” said 
Whitestone. 

How glad was I that we had stayed! It was 
not at all likely that the man coming had any 
honest business there. We stepped a trifle to 
one side and stood silent, while the tread of 
the horse’s hoofs grew louder. In a few mo- 
ments the horseman was near enough for us 
to see his face even in the night, and I felt no 
surprise, though much anger, when I recog- 
nized Captain Martyn. He was riding slowly, 
in order that he might not make much noise, 
I supposed. 

I stepped forward and put my hand upon 
his bridle rein. He saw who it was and uttered 
an exclamation; but after that he recovered 
his self-control with a quickness most astonish- 
ing. 

“ How dare you stop me in such a sudden 
and alarming manner? ” he said with an appear- 
ance of great wrath. 


20 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


But, very sure now that I was right, I in- 
tended neither to be deceived nor overborne. 
I ordered him to dismount and surrender him- 
self. 

“ You are very impertinent, sir,” he said, 
“ and need chastisement.” 

I told him it mattered not, and ordered him 
again to dismount. For reply he drew a pistol 
with such suddenness that I could not guard 
against it and fired point-blank at my face. 
It was the kindly darkness making his aim bad 
that saved me. The bullet passed me, but the 
smoke and flash blinded me. 

The traitor lashed his horse in an attempt 
to gallop by us, but Whitestone also fired, his 
bullet striking the horse and not the man. The 
animal, in pain, reared and struck out with his 
feet. Martyn attempted to urge him forward 
but failed. Then he slipped from his back and 
ran into the bushes. My eyes were clear now, 
and Whitestone and I rushed after him. 

I noted from the very first that the man ran 
toward the house, and again, even in that mo- 
ment of excitement, I congratulated myself that 
I had expected treason and collusion and had 
come back to my post. 


A LIGHT IN THE WINDOW. 


21 


I saw the captain’s head appearing just above 
some of the short bushes and raised my pistol 
to fire at him, but before I could get the proper 
aim he was out of sight. We increased our 
efforts in fear lest we should lose him, and a few 
steps further heard a shot which I knew came 
from one of my men on guard. We met the 
man running toward us, his empty rifle in his 
hand. He told us the fugitive had turned the 
corner of the house, and I felt that we had 
trapped him then, for the second man on guard 
there would be sure to stop him. 

We pressed forward and met the man from 
behind the house, attracted by the sound of 
shots. He said nobody had appeared there. 
I turned to a side door, convinced that Martyn 
had found refuge in the house. It was no time 
to stand upon courtesy, or to wait for an invita- 
tion to enter. The door was locked, but White- 
stone and I threw our full weight against it at 
the same time, and it flew open under the impact 
of some twenty-five stone. 

We fell into a dark hall and scrambled in 
pressing haste to our feet. I paused a moment 
that I might direct the soldiers to surround the 
house and seize any one who came forth. Then 


22 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


we turned to face Madame Van Auken, who was 
coming toward us, a candle in her hand, a long 
white robe around her person, and a most icy 
look on her face. 

She began at once a very fierce attack upon 
us for disturbing quiet folks abed. I have ever 
stood in dread of woman’s tongue, to which 
there is but seldom answer, but I explained in 
great hurry that a traitor had taken refuge in 
her house, and search it again we must, if not 
with her consent, then without it. She re- 
pelled me with extreme haughtiness, saying 
such conduct was unworthy of men who pre- 
tended to breeding; but, after all, it was no more 
than she ought to expect from ungrateful rebels. 

Her attack, most unwarranted, considering 
the fact that a traitor had just hid in her 
house, stirred some spleen in me, and I bade her 
very stiffly to stand out of the way. Another 
light appeared just then at the head of the 
stairway, and Mistress Kate came down, fully 
dressed, looking very fine and handsome too, 
with a red flame in either cheek. 

She demanded the reason of our entry with 
a degree of haughtiness inferior in no wise to 
her mother’s. Again I explained, angered at 


A LIGHT IN THE WINDOW. 


23 


these delays made by women who, handsome 
or not, may appear sometimes when they are 
not wanted. 

“ Take the men, all except one to watch at 
the door, and search the house at once, ser- 
geant,” said I. 

Whitestone, with an indifference to their bit- 
ter words most astonishing, led his men up- 
stairs and left me to endure it all. I pretended 
not to hear, and taking the candle suddenly 
from Kate’s hands turned into a side room and 
began to poke about the furniture. But they 
followed me there. 

“ I suppose you think this is very shrewd and 
very noble,” said Kate with a fine irony. 

I did not reply, but poked behind a side- 
board with my pistol muzzle. Both Kate and 
her mother seemed to me, despite their efforts 
to repress it, to manifest a very great un- 
easiness.' I did not wonder at it, for I knew 
they must fear to be detected in their collusion 
with the traitor. Kate continued to gibe at 
me. 

“ Oh, well, it’s not Captain Chudleigh I’m 
looking for,” said I at last. 

“And in truth if it were, you’d be afraid 


24 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


to find him,” replied she, a sprightly flash ap- 
pearing in her eye. 

I said no more, content with my hit. I 
found no one below stairs, and joined White- 
stone on the second floor, the women still fol- 
lowing me and upbraiding me. I looked more 
than once at Kate, and I could see that she was 
all in a tremor. I doubted not it arose from 
a belief that I had discovered her treachery, as 
well as from a fear that we would capture the 
chief traitor. 

Whitestone had not yet found our man, 
though he had been in every room on the sec- 
ond floor and even into the low-roofed garret. 
At this the two women became more contume- 
lious, crying out that we were now shamed 
by our own acts. But we were confident that 
the man was yet in the house. I pushed into a 
large room which seemed to serve as a spare 
chamber. We had entered it once before, but I 
thought a more thorough search might be 
made. In one corner, some dresses hanging 
against the wall reached to the floor. I prodded 
one of them with my fist and encountered some- 
thing soft. 

The dress was dashed aside and our man 


A LIGHT IN THE WINDOW. 


25 


sprang out. There was a low window at the 
end of the room, and with one bound he was 
through it. Whitestone fired at his disappear- 
ing body, but missed. W e heard a second shot 
from the man on guard below, and then we 
rushed pell-mell down the stairs to pursue him. 

I bethought me at the door to bid one of the 
men- stay and watch the house, for I knew not 
what further treachery the women might medi- 
tate. This stopped me only a moment, and 
then I ran after Whitestone, who was some 
steps in the lead. We overtook the man who 
had fired at Martyn, and he said he had hit him, 
so he thought. 

“ When he sprang from the window he rose 
very light from the ground,” he said, “ and I 
don’t think the fall hurt him much.” 

We saw Martyn some twenty yards or more 
in advance of us, running toward the south. 
It was of -double importance now that we should 
overtake him, for if we did not he would be 
beyond our lines, and, barring some improbable 
chance, would escape to Clinton with a report 
of Burgoyne’s condition. 

The fugitive curved here and there among 
the shadows but could not shake us off. I 


2 6 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


held my loaded pistol in my hand and twice or 
thrice had a chance for a fair shot at him, but I 
never raised the weapon. I could shoot at a 
man in the heat of battle or the flurry of a sud- 
den moment of excitement, but not when he 
was like a fleeing hare. Moreover, I preferred 
to take him alive. 

The moon was coming out, driving away part 
of the darkness, and on the bushes I noticed 
some spots of blood. Then the fugitive had 
been hit, and I was glad I had not fired upon 
him, for we would be certain to take him 
wounded. 

The course led over pretty rough ground. 
Whitestone was panting at my elbow, and two 
of the men lumbered behind us. The fugitive 
began to waver, and presently I noticed that we 
were gaining. Suddenly Martyn beg&n to cast 
his hands as if he were throwing something 
from him, and we saw little bits of white paper 
fluttering in the air. I divined on the instant 
that, seeing his certain capture, he was tearing 
up traitorous papers. We wanted those papers 
as well as their bearer. 

I shouted to him to halt lest I fire. He 
flung a whole handful of scraps from him. Just 


A LIGHT IN THE WINDOW. 


Z7 

then he came to a stump; he stopped abruptly, 
sat down upon it with his face to us, and draw- 
ing a pistol from his pocket, put it to his own 
head and fired. 

I was never more shocked in my life, the 
thing was so sudden. He slid off the stump to 
the ground, and when we reached him he was 
quite dead. We found no letters upon him, 
as in the course of his flight he had succeeded in 
destroying them all. But I had not the slight- 
est doubt the order he had given to me would 
soon prove to be a forgery. His own actions 
had been sufficient evidence of that. 

I directed Whitestone to take the body to 
some safe place and we would give it quiet 
burial on the morrow. I did not wish the 
women to know of the man’s terrible fate, 
though I owed them scant courtesy for the way 
they had treated me. 

Leaving Whitestone and one of the soldiers 
to the task, I went back to the house alone. 

Mistress Kate and her mother were at the 
door, both in a state of high excitement. 

“ Did he escape? ” asked Madame Van 
Auken. 

“ No,” I replied, telling the truth in part 
3 


28 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


and a lie in part. “ We captured him, and the 
men are now taking him back' to the army. ,, 

She sighed deeply. Mistress Kate said noth- 
ing, though her face was of a great paleness. 

“ I will not upbraid you with what I call 
treachery,” I said, speaking to them both, “ and 
I will not disturb you again to-night. It is not 
necessary.” 

I said the last rather grimly, but I observed 
some of the paleness depart from Mistress 
Kate’s countenance and a look strangely like 
that of relief come into her eyes. I was sorry, 
for it seemed to me to indicate more thought 
of her own and her mother’s peace than of the 
fate of the man whom we had taken. But 
there was naught to say, and I left them with- 
out the courtesy of a good night on either side. 

Whitestone and the men returned presently 
from their task, and I posted the guards as be- 
fore, confident that no traitor could pass while 
I was on watch there. 


CHAPTER III. 


A SHOT FROM THE WINDOW. 

Whitestone and I held a small conference 
in the dark. Though regretting that the matter 
had ended in such tragic way, we believed we had 
done a great thing, and I am not loath to con- 
fess that I expected words of approval the next 
day when we would take the news of it to the 
army. We agreed that we must not relax our 
vigilance in the smallest particular, for where 
there was one plot there might be a dozen. 
Whitestone went down into the valley while I 
remained near the house. 

In my lonely watch I had great space for 
thought. I was grieved by my discoveries in 
regard to Kate Van Auken. Of a truth she 
was nothing to me, being betrothed, moreover, 
to Chudleigh the Englishman; but we had been 
children together, and it was not pleasing to 
believe her a patriot and find her a traitor. I 
2 9 


30 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


could get no sort of satisfaction out of such 
thoughts, and turning them aside walked about 
with vigor in an attempt to keep myself from 
becoming very sleepy. 

The moon was still showing herself, and I 
could see the house very well. No light had 
appeared in it since our last withdrawal, but 
looking very closely I saw what appeared to be 
a dark shadow at one of the windows. I knew 
that room to be Mistress Kate’s, and I sur- 
mised that she was there seeking to watch us. 
I resolved in return that I would watch her. 
I stepped back where I would be sheltered by a 
tree from her sight, and presently had my re- 
ward. The window was opened gently and a 
head, which could be none other than that of 
Kate, was thrust out a bit. 

I could see her quite well, even the features 
of her face. She was looking very earnestly into 
the surrounding night, and of a truth anxiety 
was writ plainly on her countenance. She 
stretched her head out farther and examined all 
the space before the house. I was hidden from 
her gaze, but down in a corner of the yard she 
could see the sentinel pacing back and forth. 
She inspected him with much earnestness for 


A SHOT FROM THE WINDOW. 


31 


some time, and then withdrew her head, closing 
the window. 

I was of the opinion that some further mis- 
chief was afoot or intended, but the nature of 
it passed me. It seemed that what had hap- 
pened already was not a sufficient warning to 
them. I began to walk around the house that 
I might keep a watch upon it from every point. 
Sleepiness no longer oppressed me. In truth, 
I forgot all about it. 

I passed to the rear of the building and 
spoke to the sentinel stationed in the yard there. 
He had seen nothing of suspicious nature so 
far. I knew he was a faithful, watchful man, 
and that I could trust him. I left him and 
pushed my way between two large flower bushes 
growing very close together. Standing there, 
I beheld the opening of another window in the 
house. Again the head of Mistress Kate ap- 
peared, and precisely the same act as before was 
repeated. She looked about with the intent- 
ness and anxiety of a military engineer studying 
his ground. She saw the sentinel as she had 
seen his fellow before the house, and her eyes 
rested long upon him. Her examination fin- 
ished, she withdrew, closing the window. 


32 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


I set myself to deciphering the meaning of 
this, and of a sudden it flashed upon me with 
such force that I believed myself stupid not to 
have seen it before. Kate Van Auken herself 
was planning to go through our lines with the 
news of Burgoyne’s plight. She was a bold 
girl, not much afraid of the dark or the woods, 
and the venture was not beyond her. The con- 
viction of the truth depressed me. I felt some 
regard for Kate Van Auken, whom I as a little 
boy had liked as a little girl, and I had slight 
relish for this task of keeping watch upon her. 
Even now I had caught her planning great harm 
to our cause. 

I confess that I scarce knew what to do. 
Perhaps it was my duty, if the matter be con- 
sidered in its utmost strictness, to arrest both 
the women at once as dangerous to our cause, 
and send them to the army. But such a course 
was quite beyond my resolution. I could not do 
it. Being unable to decide upon anything else, 
I continued my watch, determined that Mis- 
tress Kate should not escape from the house. 

The moon withdrew herself and then there 
was an increase of darkness. Again I was 
thankful that I had been vigilant, for I saw a 


A SHOT FROM THE WINDOW. 


33 


small door in the rear of the house open. I 
could not doubt that it opened to let forth 
Catherine Van Auken upon her traitorous 
errand. I made my resolution upon the instant. 
If she came out, I would seize her and compel 
her to return to the house in all quiet, in order 
that Whitestone and the others might not 
know. 

My suspicions — my fears, in truth I may call 
them — were justified, for in a few moments her 
well-known figure appeared in the doorway all 
clothed about in a great dark cloak and hood, 
like one preparing for a long night’s journey. 
I retreated a little, for it was my purpose to 
draw her on and then catch her, when no doubt 
about her errand could arise. 

She stood in the doorway for perhaps two 
minutes repeating her actions at the window; 
that is, she looked around carefully to note how 
we were watching. I could not see her face 
owing to the increase of darkness and her atti- 
tude, but I had no doubt the same anxiety and 
eagerness were writ there. 

Presently she seemed to arrange her dark 
draperies in a manner more satisfactory and, 
stooping somewhat, came out of the house. 


34 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


The sentinel in this part of the yard was doing 
his duty and was as watchful as could be, but he 
could scarce see this shadow gliding along in the 
larger shadow of the rose bushes. I deemed it 
good fortune that I was there to see and pre- 
vent the flight. I would face her and confound 
her with the proof of her guilt. 

She came on quite rapidly, and I shrank a 
little farther back into the rose bushes. Her 
course was directly toward me, and suddenly I 
rose up in the path. I expected her to show 
great surprise and to cry out after the fashion of 
women, but she did not. In truth I fancied I 
saw a start, but that was all. In a moment she 
whirled about and fled back toward the house 
with as little noise as the shadow she resembled. 
I had scarce recovered my presence of mind 
when she was halfway to the house, but I pur- 
sued in the effort to overtake her and con- 
found her. 

I observed that when she came forth she had 
shut the door behind her, but as she fled swiftly 
back it seemed to open of its own accord for 
her entrance. She passed within, disappearing 
like a ghost, and the door was shut with a snap 
almost in my face. I put my hands upon it and 


A SHOT FROM THE WINDOW. 


35 

found it was very real and substantial — perhaps 
a stout two inches in thickness. 

I deliberated with myself for a moment or 
two and concluded to do nothing further in the 
matter. Perhaps it had turned out as well as 
might be, for I had stopped her errand, and her 
return, doubtless, had released me from unpleas- 
ant necessities. 

I made no effort to force the door or to 
enter the house otherwise, but visited the sen- 
tinels, telling them to be of good caution, 
though I gave them no hint of what had hap- 
pened. 

I found Whitestone in the valley sitting on 
a stump and sucking at his pipe, which con- 
tained neither fire nor tobacco. He told me 
naught unusual had happened there. I took 
him back to the house with me, and together 
we watched about it until the coming of the 
day, without further event of interest. 

Sunrise found my men and me very tired 
and sleepy, as we had a right to be, having been 
on guard near to twenty-four hours, with some 
very exciting things occurring in that long 
space. I awaited the relief which must come 
soon, for we were not iron men. 


36 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


The sun had scarce swung clear of the earth 
when a door of the house was opened and Mis- 
tress Kate coming out, a pail in hand, walked 
lightly toward the well. I approached her, and 
she greeted me with an unconcern that amazed 
me. 

“ I trust that you enjoyed your night watch, 
Master Shelby? ” she said. 

“ As well as was likely under the circum- 
stances,” I replied. “ I hope that you slept 
soundly? ” 

“ Nothing disturbed us after your invasion 
of our house,” she said with fine calmness. 
“ Now, will you help me draw this water? Since 
the approach of the armies there is no one left 
in the house save my mother and myself, and 
we must cook and do for ourselves.” 

I helped draw the water, and even carried 
the filled pail to the house for her, though she 
dismissed me at the door. But she atoned 
partly for her scant courtesy by bringing us a 
little later some loaves of white bread, which 
she said she had baked with her own hands, 
and which we found to be very good. 

We had but finished breakfast when the sol- 
diers who were to relieve us came, and right glad 


A SHOT FROM THE WINDOW. 


3 / 


were we to see them. They were followed a few 
minutes later by the colonel in charge, to whom 
I related the affair of Captain Martyn, and to 
whom I showed the order commanding us to 
withdraw. He instantly pronounced it a for- 
gery and commended us for staying. 

“ It was a traitorous attempt to get through 
our line,” he said, “ but we are none the worse 
off, for it has failed.” 

I said nothing of Kate Van Auken’s share 
in the conspiracy, but I told him the women 
in the house inclined strongly to the Tory side. 

“ I will see that the house is watched every 
moment of the day and night,” he said. 

Then I felt easy in mind and went off to 
sleep. 

When I awoke it was about two by the sun, 
and the afternoon was fine. I heard that fresh 
troops had arrived from the Massachusetts and 
New Hampshire provinces in the morning, and 
the trap was closing down on Burgoyne tighter 
than ever. Everybody said another great battle 
was coming, and coming soon. Even then I 
heard the pop-pop of distant skirmishing and 
saw an occasional red flash on the horizon. 

I was eager to be at the front, but such duty 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

was not for me then. As soon as I had eaten 
I was sent back with Sergeant Whitestone and 
the same men to keep watch at precisely the 
same point. 

“ Best take it easy/’ said the sergeant con- 
solingly. “ If the big battle’s fought while we’re 
away we can’t get killed in it.” 

Then he lighted the inevitable pipe, smoked, 
and was content. 

I questioned very closely the men whom we 
relieved near the house, and they said there had 
been nothing to note. The elder woman had 
never come out of the house, but the younger 
had been seen in the yard several times, though 
she had naught to say, and seemed to be con- 
cerned not at all about anything. 

I thought it best not to visit the house, and 
took my station with Whitestone in the valley, 
disposing the men in much the same manner as 
before. Whitestone puffed at his pipe with the 
usual regularity and precision, but some of his 
taciturnity was gone. He was listening to the 
sounds of the skirmishing which came to us 
fitfully. 

“ The bees are stinging,” said he. Then he 
added, with a fine mixture of metaphors: “ The 


A SHOT FROM THE WINDOW. 


39 


mouse is trying to feel his way out of the trap. 
The big battle can’t be far off, for Burgoyne 
must know that every day lost is a chance 
lost.” 

It seemed to me that he was right, and I 
regretted more than ever my assignment to 
sentinel duty. I do not pretend to uncommon 
courage, but every soldier will bear me out that 
such waiting as we were doing is more trying 
than real battle. 

Of a sudden the skirmishing seemed to take 
on an increase of vigor and to come nearer. 
Flashes appeared at various points on the hori- 
zon. Whitestone became deeply interested. 
He stood at his full height on a stump, and I 
would have done likewise had there been an- 
other stump. Presently he leaped down, ex- 
claiming: 

“ I fancy there is work for us! ” 

I saw at once what he meant. A dozen men 
were coming down the valley at full speed. The 
bright sun even at the distance brought out 
the scarlet of their uniforms, and there was no 
mistaking the side to which they belonged. 
Evidently a party of Burgoyne’s skirmishers had 
slipped through our main line somehow and 


40 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


were bent upon escape southward, with all its 
momentous consequences. 

That ,escape we would prevent. I sent 
Whitestone in a run to the two men near the 
house to bid them take refuge behind it and 
fight from its shelter. He was back in a breath, 
and he and I and the other soldiers prepared to 
hold the passage of the valley. Most fortunate 
for us, a rail fence ran across this valley, and we 
took refuge behind it — a wise precaution, I 
think, since the approaching party outnumbered 
us. 

All of ours, except myself, had rifles, and I 
carried two good pistols, with which I am no 
bad shot. The British came on with much 
speed. Two of them were mounted. 

I glanced toward the house. At one of the 
windows I saw a figure. I trusted if it was 
Kate Van Auken that she would withdraw 
speedily from such an exposed place. But I 
had no time to note her presence further, for 
just then the British seemed to perceive that 
we barred the way, for they stopped as if hesitat- 
ing. I suppose they saw us, as we were shel- 
tered but in part by the fence. 

Wishing to spare bloodshed I shouted to 


A SHOT FROM THE WINDOW. 


41 


them to surrender, but one of the men on horse- 
back shook his head, said something to the 
others, and they dashed toward us at all speed. 
I recognized this man who appeared to be their 
leader. He was Chudleigh, the Englishman, 
the betrothed of Kate Van Auken, and, so far 
as I knew, an honest, presentable fellow. 

Whitestone poised his rifle on the top rail 
of the fence and I surmised that it was aimed 
at Chudleigh. Were the matter not so desper- 
ate I could have wished for a miss. But before 
Whitestone pulled the trigger one of the men 
from the shelter of the house fired, and Chud- 
leigh’s horse, struck by the ball intended for his 
master, went down, tossing Chudleigh some dis- 
tance upon the ground, where he lay quite still. 
Whitestone transferred his aim and knocked 
the other mounted man off his horse. 

The remainder, not daunted by the warmth 
of our greeting and the loss of their cavalry, 
raised a cheer and rushed at us, firing their 
pistols and muskets. 

I do not scorn a skirmish. It may, and 
often does, contain more heat to the square 
yard than a great battle with twenty thousand 
men engaged. These men bore down upon us 


42 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


full of resolution. Their bullets pattered upon 
the rails of the fence, chipping off splinters. 
Some went between the rails and whizzed by 
us in fashion most uncomfortable. One man 
cried out a bit as the lead took him in the fleshy 
part of the leg, but he did not shrink from the 
onset. 

Meanwhile we were not letting the time 
pass without profit, but fired at them with as 
much rapidity and aim as we could. The two 
men at the corner of the house helped us much 
with fine sharpshooting. 

Our fortification, though but slender, gave us 
a great advantage, and nearly a third of their 
number had fallen before they were within a 
dozen feet of the fence. But it was our business 
not only to defeat them but to keep any from 
passing us. I was hopeful of doing this, for the 
sound of the firing had reached other portions of 
the line, and I saw re-enforcements for us com- 
ing on the run. 

Our fire had been so hot that the British 
when within a dozen feet of us shrank back. 
Of a sudden one of them, a very active fellow, 
swerved to one side, darted at the fence, and 
leaping it with a single bound ran lightly along 


A SHOT FROM THE WINDOW. 


43 

the hillside. I called to Whitestone and we fol- 
lowed him at all speed. I was confident that 
the others would be taken by our re-enforce- 
ments, who were coming up fast, and this man 
who had passed our line must be caught at all 
hazards. 

One of my men at the house fired at the 
fugitive, but missed. My pistols were empty, 
and so was Whitestone’s rifle. It was a matter 
which fleetness would decide and we made every 
effort. 

The fugitive curved toward a wood back of 
the house, and we followed. I heard a rifle shot 
from a new direction, and Whitestone stag- 
gered; but in a moment he recovered him- 
self, saying it was only a flesh wound. I was 
amazed, not at the shot but at the point from 
which it came. I looked up, and it was no 
mistake of hearing, for there was the white puff 
of smoke rising from an upper window in the 
house. It was but the glance of a moment, as 
the fugitive then claimed my attention. His 
speed was slackening and he seemed to be grow- 
ing very tired. 

A little blood appeared on Whitestone’s arm 
near the shoulder, but he gave no other sign 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


44 

that the wound affected him. Our man in- 
creased his speed a bit, but the effort exhausted 
him; he stopped of a sudden, dropped to the 
earth, and lay there panting, strength and 
breath quite gone. 

We ran up to him and demanded his sur- 
render. He was too much exhausted to speak, 
but he nodded as if he were glad the thing was 
over. We let him rest until hjs breath came 
back. Then he climbed to his feet, and, looking 
at us, said in the fashion of one defending him- 
self: 

“ I did the best I could; you can’t say I 
didn’t.” 

“ I guess you did,” I replied. “ You went 
farther than any of your comrades.” 

He was a most likely young fellow, not more 
than twenty, I should say, and I was very glad 
he had come out of the affair unhurt. We took 
him back to the valley, where the conflict was 
over. Our re-enforcements had come up so fast 
that the remainder of the British surrendered 
after a few shots. All the prisoners were de- 
livered to one of our captains who had arrived, 
and he took them away. Then I turned my 
attention to Whitestone. Having some small 


A SHOT FROM THE WINDOW. 


45 

knowledge of surgery, I asked him to let me see 
his arm. He held it out without a word. 

I pushed up his sleeve and found that the 
bullet had cut only a little below the skin. I 
bound up the scratch with a piece of old white 
cloth, and said: 

“ You needn’t bother about that, White- 
stone; the bullet that cut it wasn’t very well 
aimed.” • 

“ It was aimed pretty well, I think, for a 
woman,” he said. 

“You won’t say any more about that, White- 
stone, will you? ” I asked quietly. 

“ Not to anybody unless to you,” he re- 
plied. 

There was a faint smile on his face that I 
did not altogether like; but he thrust his hand 
into the inside pocket of his waistcoat, took 
out his pipe, lighted the tobacco with great 
deliberation, and began to smoke as if nothing 
had happened. 

The prisoners taken away and other signs of 
conflict removed, we were left to our old duty, 
and hill and hollow resumed their quiet. I was 
much troubled, but at last I made up my mind 
what to do, Asking Whitestone to keep a 


46 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


good watch, I went to the house and knocked 
with much loudness at the front door. Kate 
opened the door, self-possessed and dignified. 

“ Miss Van Auken,” I said with all my dig- 
nity, “ I congratulate you upon your progress 
in the useful art of sharpshooting. You have 
wounded Sergeant Whitestone, a most excel- 
lent man, and perhaps it was chance only that 
saved him from death.” 

“ Why should you blame me? ” she said. “ I 
wished the man you were pursuing to escape, 
and there was no other way to help him. This 
is war, you know.” 

I had scarce expected so frank an admission. 

“ I will have to search the house for your 
weapon,” I said. “ How do I know that you 
will not shoot at me as I go away? ” 

“ Do not trouble yourself,” she said easily, 
“ I will bring it to you.” 

She ran up the stairway and returned in a 
moment with a large, unloaded pistol, which 
she held out to me. 

“ I might have tried to use it again,” she 
said with a little laugh, “ but I confess I did 
not know how to reload it.” 

She handed me the pistol with a gesture 


A SHOT FROM THE WINDOW. 


47 


of repulsion as if she were glad to get rid of 
it. Her frankness changed my purpose some- 
what, and I asked her how her mother fared. 

“ Very well, but in most dreadful alarm be- 
cause of the fighting,” she replied. 

“ It would be best for both of you, for your 
own safety, to remain in the house and keep 
the windows closed,” I said. 

“ So I think,” she replied. 

I turned away, for I wished to think further 
what disposition to make of Kate Van Auken 
and her mother. It seemed that they should 
remain no longer at such a critical point of our 
line, where in an unwatched moment they 
might do us a great evil. Moreover, I was much 
inflamed against Kate because of the treacher- 
ous shot which had come so near to ending 
Whitestone’s career. But even then I sought 
for some mitigating circumstance, some excuse 
for her. Perhaps her family had so long worked 
upon her that her own natural and patriotic 
feelings had become perverted to such an extent 
that she looked upon the shot as a righteous 
deed. Cases like it were not new. 

I thought it best to take Whitestone into 
my confidence. 


48 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ We can not do anything to-day,” he said, 
“ for none of us can leave here; but it would 
be well to keep a good watch upon that house 
again to-night.” 

This advice seemed good, for like as not 
Kate Van Auken, not at all daunted by her 
failure, would make another attempt to escape 
southward. 

Therefore with much interest I waited the 
coming of our second night there, which was 
but a brief time away. 


CHAPTER IV. 


OUT OF THE HOUSE. 

The night came on and I was uneasy. Many 
things disturbed me. The house was a sore 
spot in my mind, and with the dusk the signs of 
battle seemed to increase. Upon this dark 
background the flashes from the skirmishing 
grew in size and intensity. From under the 
horizon’s rim came the deep murmur of the 
artillery. I knew that Burgoyne was feeling 
his way, and more than ever it was impressed 
upon me that either he would break out soon 
or we would close in upon him and crush him. 
The faint pop-pop of the distant rifles was like 
the crackling that precedes the conflagration. 

To the south there was peace, apparent 
peace, but I knew Burgoyne must turn his face 
hopefully many a time that way, for if rescue 
came at all it must come thence. 

“ Another day nearer the shutting of the 
49 


50 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


trap,” said Whitestone, walking up and down 
with his arm in a sling. I found that he could 
manage his pipe as well with one hand as with 
two. 

The night was darker than usual, for which 
I was sorry, as it was against us and in favor of 
the others. Again asking Whitestone to stand 
sponsor for the hollow, I approached the house. 
I had repeated my precautions of the day be- 
fore, placing one sentinel in front of it and an- 
other behind it. But in the darkness two men 
could be passed, and I would watch with them. 

From the hill top the flashes of the skirmish- 
ing seemed to multiply, and for a few moments 
I forgot the house that I might watch them. 
Even I, who had no part in the councils of my 
generals and elders, knew how much all this 
meant to us, and the intense anxiety with which 
every patriot heart awaited the result. More 
than ever I regretted my present duty. 

The house was dark, but I felt sure in my 
heart that Kate would make another attempt 
to escape us. Why should she wait? 

I thought it my best plan to walk in an end- 
less circle abound the house; it would keep sleep 
away and give me the greater chance to see 


OUT OF THE HOUSE. 


51 


anything that might happen. It was but dull 
and tiresome work at the best. Around and 
around I walked, stopping once in a while to 
speak to my sentinels. Time was so slow that 
it seemed to me the night ought to have passed, 
when the size of the moon showed, that it was 
not twelve. 

I expected Kate to look from the windows 
again and spy out the ground before making 
the venture; so I kept faithful watch upon 
them, but found no reward for such vigilance 
and attention. Her face did not appear; no 
light sparkled from the house. Perhaps after 
her failures her courage had sunk. Certainly 
the time for her venture, if venture she would 
make, was passing. 

As I continued my perpetual circle I ap- 
proached the beat of the sentinel who was 
stationed behind the house. I saw him sooner 
than I expected; he had come farther toward 
the side of the house than his orders permitted 
him to do, and I. was preparing to rebuke him 
when I noticed of a sudden that he seemed to 
be without his rifle. The next moment his 
figure disappeared from me like the shadow of 
something that had never been. 


52 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


Twenty yards away I saw the sentinel, up- 
right, stiff, rifle on shoulder, no thought but of 
his duty. I knew the first figure was that of 
Kate Van Auken, and not of the sentinel. How 
she had escaped from the house unseen I did 
not know and it was no time to stop for inquiry. 
I stepped among the trees, marking as closely 
as I could that particular blotch of blackness 
into which she had disappeared, and I had re- 
ward, for again I saw her figure, more like 
shadow than substance. 

I might have shouted to the sentinels and 
raised hue and cry, but I had reasons — very 
good, it seemed to me — for not doing so. More- 
over, I needed no assistance. Surely I could 
hold myself sufficient to capture one girl. She 
knew the grounds well, but I also knew them. 
I had played over them often enough. 

The belt of woods began about fifty yards 
back of the house, and was perhaps the same 
. number of yards in breadth. But the trees 
seemed not to hinder her speed. She curved 
lightly among them with the readiness of per- 
fect acquaintance, and I was sure that the ela- 
tion coming from what she believed to be es- 
cape was quickening her flight. 


OUT OF THE HOUSE. 


53 


She passed through the trees and into the 
stretch of open ground beyond. Then for the 
first time she looked back and saw me. At 
least I believe she saw me, for she seemed to 
start, and her cloak fluttered as she began to run 
with great speed. 

A hundred yards farther was a rail fence, 
and beyond that a stretch of corn land. With 
half a leap and half a climb, very remarkable in 
woman, who is usually not expert in such mat- 
ters, she scaled this fence in a breath and was 
among the cornstalks. I feared that she might 
elude me there, but I, too, was over the fence 
in a trice and kept her figure in view. She had 
shown much more endurance than I expected, 
though I knew she was a strong girl. But we 
had come a good half mile, and few women can 
run at speed so far. 

She led me a chase through the cornfield 
and then over another fence into a pasture. I 
noted with pleasure that I was gaining all the 
time. In truth, I had enjoyed so much exer- 
cise of this kind in the last day that I ought to 
have been in a fair way of becoming an expert. 

Our course lengthened to a mile and I was 
within fifteen yards of her. Despite my gen- 


54 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


eral disrelish for the position I felt a certain 
grim joy in being the man to stop her plans, 
inasmuch as she had deceived me more perhaps 
than any one else. 

It was evident that I could overtake her, 
and I hailed her, demanding that she stop. For 
reply she whirled about and fired a pistol at me, 
and then, seeing that she had missed, made an 
effort to run faster. 

I was astounded. I confess it even after all 
that had happened — but she had fired at White- 
stone before; now she was firing at me. I 
would stop this fierce woman, not alone for the 
good of our cause, but for the revenge her dis- 
appointment would be to me. The feeling gave 
me strength, and in five minutes more I could 
almost reach out my hands and touch her. 

“ Stop! ” I shouted in anger. 

She whirled about again and struck at me, 
full strength, with the butt of her pistol. I might 
have .suffered a severe, perhaps a stunning, blow, 
but by instinct I threw up my right hand, and 
her wrist gliding off it the pistol struck noth- 
ing, dashing with its own force from her hand. 
I warded off another swift blow aimed with the 
left fist, and then saw that I stood face to face 


OUT OF THE HOUSE. 


55 

not with Kate Van Auken but with her brother 
Albert. 

There was a look upon his face of mingled 
shame and determination. How could he 
escape shame with his sister’s skirts around him 
and her'hood upon his head? 

My own feelings were somewhat mixed in 
character. First, there was a sensation of great 
relief, so quick I had not time to make analysis, 
and then there came over me a strong desire 
to laugh. I submit that the sight of a man 
caught in woman’s dress and ashamed of it is 
fair cause for mirth. 

It was dark, but not too dark for me to see 
his face redden at my look. 

“ You’ll have to fight it out with me,” he 
said, very stiff and haughty. 

“ I purpose to do it,” I said, “ but perhaps 
your clothes may be in your way.” 

He snatched the hood off his head and 
hurled it into the bushes; then with another 
angry pull he ripped the skirt off, and, casting 
it to one side stood forth in proper man’s attire, 
though that of a citizen and not of the British 
soldier that he was. 

He confronted me, very angry. I did not 


56 THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

think of much at that moment save how won- 
derfully his face was like his sister Kate’s. I 
had never taken such thorough note of it be- 
fore, though often the opportunity was mine. 

Our pause had given him breath, and he 
stood awaiting my attack like one who fights 
with his fists in the ring. My loaded pistol was 
in my belt, but he did not seem to think that I 
would use it; nor did I think of it myself. His, 
unloaded, lay on the ground. I advanced upon 
him, and with his right fist he struck very swiftly 
at my face. I thrust my head to one side and the 
blow glanced off the hard part of it, leaving his 
own face unprotected. I could have dealt 
him a heayy return blow that would have made 
his face look less like his sister Kate’s, but I 
preferred to close with him and seize him in my 
grasp. 

Though lighter than I he was agile, and 
sought to trip me, or by some dexterous turn 
otherwise to gain advantage of me. But I was 
wary, knowing full well that. I ought to be so, 
and presently I brought him down in a heap, 
falling upon him with such force that he lay 
a few moments as if stunned, though it was 
but the breath knocked out of him. 


OUT OF THE HOUSE. 


5 / 

“ Do you give up? ” I asked, when he had 
returned to speaking condition. 

“ Yes,” he replied. “ You were always too 
strong for me, Dick.” 

Which was true, for there never was a time, 
even when we were little boys, when I could not 
throw him, though I do not say it as a boast, 
since there were others who could throw me. 

“ Do you make complete and unconditional 
surrender to me as the sole present representa- 
tive of the American army, and promise to make 
no further effort to escape? ” asked I, some- 
what amazed at the length of my own words, 
and a little proud of them too. 

“ Yes, Dick, confound it! Get off my chest! 
How do you expect me to breathe? ” he re- 
plied with a somewhat unreasonable show of 
temper. 

I dismounted and he sat up, thumping his 
chest and drawing very long breaths as if he 
wished to be sure that everything was right in- 
side. When he had finished his examination, 
which seemed to be satisfactory, he said: 

“ I’m your prisoner, Dick. What do you 
intend to do with me? ” 

“ Blessed if I know/’ I replied, 


58 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


In truth, I did not. He was in citizens’ 
clothes, and he had been lurking inside our lines 
for at least a day or so. If I gave him up to 
our army, as my duty bade me to do, he might 
be shot, which would be unpleasant to me as 
well as to him for various reasons. If I let him 
go he might ruin us. 

“ Suppose you think it over while I rest,” 
he said. “ A man can’t run a mile and then 
fight a big fellow like you without getting pretty 
tired.” 

In a few minutes I made up my mind. It 
was not a way out of the matter, but it was 
the only thing I could think of for the present. 

“ Get up, Albert,” I said. 

He rose obediently. 

“ You came out of that house unseen,” I 
resumed, “ and I want you to go back into it 
unseen. Do exactly as I say. I’m thinking of 
you as well as of myself.” 

He seemed to appreciate the consideration 
and followed close behind me as I took my way 
toward the house. I had no fear that he would 
attempt escape. Albert was always a fellow of 
honor, though I could never account for the 
perversion of his political opinions. 


OUT OF THE HOUSE. 


59 


He walked back slowly. I kept as good a 
lookout as I could in the darkness. It was bare- 
ly possible that I would meet Whitestone prowl- 
ing about, and that was not what I wanted. 

“ Albert,” I asked, “ why did you shoot at 
Whitestone from the house? I can forgive your 
shooting at me, for that was in fair and open 
strife.” 

“ Dick,” he said so earnestly that I could 
not but believe him, “ to tell you the truth, I 
feel some remorse about the shot, but the man 
you were pursuing was Trevannion of ours, my 
messmate, and such a fine fellow that I knew 
only one other whom I’d rather see get through 
with the news of our plight, and that’s myself. 
I couldn’t resist trying to help him. Suppose 
we say no more about it; let it pass.” 

“ It’s Whitestone’s affair, not mine,” I said. 
I was not making any plans to tell Whitestone 
about it. 

When we came to, the edge of the wood be- 
hind the house I told him to stop. Going for- 
ward, I sent the sentinel to the other side of the 
building, telling him to watch there with his 
comrade for a little, while I took his place. As 
soon as his figure disappeared behind the cor- 
5 


6o 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


ner of the house Albert came forward and we 
hurried to the side door. We knocked lightly 
upon it and it was promptly opened by his 
sister. I could guess the anxiety and dread 
with which she was waiting lest she should hear 
sounds which would tell of an interrupted flight, 
and the distress with which she would see us 
again. Nor was I deceived. When she beheld 
us standing there in the dark, her lips moved 
as if she could scarce repress the cry that rose. 

I spoke first. 

“ Take him back in the house,” I said, “ and 
keep him there until you hear from me. Hurry 
up, Albert! ” 

Albert stepped in. 

“ And don’t forget this,” I continued, for I 
could not wholly forgive him, “ if you shoot at 
me or Whitestone or anybody else, I’ll see you 
hanged as a spy, if I have to do it myself.” 

They quickly closed the door, and recalling 
the sentinel, I went in search of Whitestone. 

I had some notion of confiding in White- 
stone, but, after thought, I concluded I had best 
not, at least not fully. 

I found him walking up and down in the 
valley. 


OUT OF THE HOUSE. 


6l 


“ Whitestone,” I said, “ do me a favor? If 
anybody asks you how you got that scratch 
on your arm, tell him it was in the skirmish, 
and you don’t know who fired the shot.” 

He considered a moment. 

“ I’ll do it,” he said, “ if you’ll agree to do 
as much for me, first chance.” 

I promised, and, that matter off my mind, 
tried to think of a plan to get Albert out of the 
house and back to his own army unseen by any 
of ours. Thinking thus, the night passed away. 


CHAPTER V. 


MY SUPERIOR OFFICER. 

The relief came early in the morning, bring- 
ing with it the news that our army, which was 
stronger every day than on the yesterday, had 
moved still closer to Burgoyne. My blood 
thrilled as ever at this, but I had chosen a new 
course of action for myself. It would be an 
evil turn for me if Albert Van Auken were 
taken at the house and should run the risk of 
execution as a spy; it might be said that I was 
the chief cause of it. 

I was very tired, and stretching myself on 
the turf beneath the shade of a tree in the valley, 
I fell into a sound sleep in two minutes. When 
I awoke at the usual time I found that the 
guard had been re-enforced, and, what was 
worse, instead of being first in command I was 
now only second. This in itself was disagree- 
able, but the character of the man who had sup- 
planted me was a further annoyance. I knew 
62 


MY SUPERIOR OFFICER. 


63 


Lieutenant Belt quite well, a New Englander 
much attached to our cause, but of a prying 
disposition and most suspicious. The re-en- 
forcements had been sent because of the previ- 
ous attempt to break through the line at this 
point, the lay of the ground being such that it 
was more favorable for plans of escape than 
elsewhere. 

“ You need not stay unless you wish,” said 
Belt. “ No positive instructions were given on 
that point. As for myself, I confess I would 
rather be with the army, since much is likely to 
happen there soon.” 

“ I think things will drag for some time 
yet,” I said with as careless an air as I could 
assume, “ and I suspect that they have been 
more active here than they are with the army. 
Another attempt to break through our line may 
be made at this point, and I believe I’d rather 
remain for a day or two.” 

But just then, as if for the sole purpose of 
belying my words about dullness at the front, 
there was a sharp crackle of distant skirmishing 
and the red flare of a cannon appeared on the 
horizon. It called the attention of both of us 
for a moment or two. 


6 4 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ The bullets appear to be flying over there, 
but if you prefer to remain here, of course you 
can have your wish,” said Belt with sarcasm. 

I did not answer, as no good excuse hap- 
pened to my mind, and we went up the hillside 
together. I looked about carefully to see what 
arrangements he had made, but it was merely 
a doubling of the guard. Otherwise he had 
followed my dispositions. Belt looked at the 
house. 

“ I hear that some people are there. Who 
are they? ” he asked. 

“ Only two,” I replied, “ women both — Ma- 
dame Van Auken and her daughter.” 

“ For us, or against us? ” he asked. 

“ Against us,” I replied. “ The son and 
brother is in the English army with Burgoyne, 
over there; moreover, the daughter is betrothed 
to an Englishman who has just been taken 
prisoner by us.” 

I thought it best to make no disguise of 
these matters. 

“ That looks suspicious,” he said, his hawk 
face brightening at the thought of hidden things 
to be found. 

“ They might do us harm if they could,” I 


MY SUPERIOR OFFICER. 


65 


said, “ but they have not the power. Our lines 
surround the house; no one save ourselves can 
go to them, nor can they go to any one.” 

“Still, I would like to go through the house,” 
he said, some doubt yet showing in his tone. 

“ I have searched it twice and found noth- 
ing,” I said indifferently. 

He let the matter drop for the time and 
busied himself with an examination of the 
ground; but I knew he was most likely to take 
ing it up again, for he could not suppress his pry- 
ing nature. I would have been glad to give 
warning to Kate, but I could think of no way 
to do it. 

“ Who is the best man that you have here? ” 
he asked presently. 

“ Whitestone — Sergeant Whitestone,” I re- 
plied, glad to place the sergeant in his confi- 
dence, for it might turn out to my advantage. 
“ There is none more vigilant, and you can de- 
pend upon all that he says.” 

We separated there, our work taking us in 
different directions. When we returned to the 
valley, which we had made a kind of headquar- 
ters, I heard him asking Whitestone about the 
Van Aukens. 


66 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ Tartars, both of ’em,” said the good ser- 
geant; “if you go in there, leftenant, they’ll scold 
you till they take your face off.” 

The look on Belt’s face was proof that not 
even Whitestone’s warning would deter him. 
At least it so seemed to me. In a half hour 
I found that I had judged aright. He told me 
he was not in a state of satisfaction about the 
house, and since the responsibility for it lay 
with him he proposed to make a search of it 
in person. He requested me to go with him. 

“ This seems to be the main entrance,” he 
said, leading the way to the portico, which faced 
the north, and looking about with very inquir- 
ing eyes. “ Madame Van Auken and her 
daughter must be much frightened by the pres- 
ence of troops, for I have not yet seen the face 
of either at door or window.” 

He knocked loudly at the door with the hilt 
of his sword, and Kate appeared, very calm as 
usual. I made the introductions as politely as I 
was able. 

“ Lieutenant Belt is my senior, Miss Van 
Auken,” I said, “ and therefore has superseded 
me in command of the guard at this point.” 

“ Then I trust that Lieutenant Belt will re- 


MY SUPERIOR OFFICER . 1 


6/ 


lax some of the rigors of the watch,” she said, 
“ and not subject us to the great discomfort of 
repeated searches of our house.” 

She turned her shoulder to me as if she 
would treat me with the greatest coldness. I 
understood her procedure, and marveled much 
at her presence of mind. It seemed to be suc- 
cessful too, for Belt smiled, and looked ironical- 
ly at me, like one who rejoices in the mishap 
of his comrade. 

She took us into the house, talking with 
much courtesy to Belt, and ignoring me in a 
manner that I did not altogether like, even 
with the knowledge that it was but assumption. 
She led us into the presence of madame, her 
mother, who looked much worn with care, 
though preserving a haughty demeanor. As 
usual, she complained that our visits were dis- 
courtesies, and Belt apologized in his best man- 
ner. Glad that the brunt did not now fall upon 
me, I deemed it best to keep silence, which I did 
in most complete manner. 

Madame invited us to search the house as 
we pleased, and we took her at her word, finding 
nothing. I was much relieved thereat. I had 
feared that Albert, knowing I would not make 


68 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


another search so long as I was in command, 
would not be in proper concealment. With 
my relief was mingled a certain perplexity that 
his place of hiding should evade me. 

Belt was a gentleman despite his curiosity, 
which I believe the New England people can 
not help, and for which, therefore, they are not 
to be blamed, and when he had finished the vain 
quest he apologized again to Madame Van 
Auken and her daughter for troubling them. 
He was impressed by the fine looks of the 
daughter, and he made one or two gallant 
speeches to her which she received very well, 
as I notice women mostly do whatever may 
be the circumstances. I felt some anger toward 
Belt, though there seemed to be no cause for it. 
When we left the house he said : 

“ Miss Van Auken doesn’t look so danger- 
ous, yet you say she is a red-hot Tory.” 

“ I merely included her in a generality,” I 
replied. “ The others of the family are strong 
Tories, but Miss Van Auken, I have reason to 
think, inclines to our cause.” 

“ That is good,” he said, though he gave no 
reason why it should seem good to him. After 
that he turned his attention to his main duty, 


MY SUPERIOR OFFICER. 


69 

examining here and there and displaying the 
most extreme vigilance. The night found him 
still prowling about. 

Directly after nightfall the weather turned 
very cool in that unaccountable way it some- 
times has in the late summer or early autumn, 
and began to rain. 

It was a most cold and discouraging rain 
that hunted every hole in our worn uniforms, 
and displayed a peculiar knack of slipping down 
our collars. I found myself seeking the shelter 
of trees, and as the cold bit into the marrow 
my spirits drooped until I felt like an old man. 
Even the distant skirmishers were depressed by 
the rainy night, for the shots ceased and the 
hills and the valleys were as silent and lonely 
as ever they were before the white man came. 

I was thinking it was a very long and most 
dismal night before us, when I heard a chatter- 
ing of teeth near me, and turning about saw 
Belt in pitiable condition. He was all drawn 
with the cold damp, and his face looked as 
shriveled as if it were seventy instead of twenty- 
five. Moreover, he was shaking in a chill. I 
had noticed before that the man did not look 
robust. 


70 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ This is a little hard on me, Shelby,” he 
said, his tone asking sympathy. “ I have but 
lately come from a sick-bed, and I fear greatly 
this rain will throw me into a fever.” 

He looked very longingly at the house. 

I fear there was some malice in me then, 
for he had put aspersions upon my courage 
earlier in the day, which perhaps he had a 
right to do, not knowing my secret motives. 

“ The weather is a trifle bad, one must ad- 
mit, lieutenant,” I said, “ but you and I will 
not mind it; moreover, the darkness of the 
night demands greater vigilance on our part.” 

He said nothing, merely rattled his teeth 
together and walked on with what I admit was 
a brave show for a man shaking in a bad chill. 
As his assistant I could go and come pretty 
much as I chose, and I kept him in view, bent 
on seeing what he would do. 

He endured the chill most handsomely for 
quite a time, but the wet and the cold lent ag- 
gravation to it, and presently he turned to me, 
his teeth clicking together in most formidable 
fashion. 

“ I fear, Shelby, that I must seek shelter in 
the house,” he said. “ I would stick to the 


MY SUPERIOR OFFICER. 


7 1 


watch out here, but this confounded chill has 
me in its grip and will not let go. But, as you 
have done good work here and I would not 
seem selfish, you shall go in with me.” 

I understood his motive, which was to pro- 
vide that in case he should incur censure for 
going into the house, I could share it and divide 
it with him. It was no very admirable action 
on Belt’s part, but I minded it not; in truth I 
rather liked it, for since he was to be in the 
house, I preferred to be there too, and at the 
same time, and not for matters concerning my 
health. I decided quickly that I must seem his 
friend and "give him sympathy; in truth I was 
not his enemy at all; I merely found him in- 
convenient. 

We went again to the front door and 
knocked many times before any answer came to 
us. Then two heads — the one of Mistress Kate, 
the other of her mother — were thrust out of 
an upper window and the usual question was 
propounded to us. 

“ Lieutenant Belt is very ill,” I said, taking 
the word from his lips, “ and needs must have 
shelter from the cruelty of the night. We would 
not trouble you were not the case extreme.” 


72 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


I could see that Belt was grateful for the 
way I had put the matter. Presently they 
opened the door, both appearing there for the 
sake of company at that hour, I suppose. Belt 
tried to preserve an appearance in the presence 
of the ladies, but he was too sick. He trembled 
with his chill like a sapling in a high wind, and 
I said: 

“ Lieutenant Belt’s condition speaks for it- 
self; nothing else could have induced us to in- 
trude upon you at such an untimely hour.” 

I fancy I said that well, and both Madame 
Van Auken and her daughter showed pity for 
Belt; yet the elder could not wholly repress a 
display of feeling against us. 

“ We can not turn any one ill, not even an 
enemy, away from our door,” she said, “ but I 
fear the rebel armies have left us little for the 
uses of hospitality.” 

She said this in the stiff and rather precise 
way that our fathers and mothers affected, but 
she motioned for us to come in, and we obeyed 
her. I confess I was rather glad to enter the 
dry room, for my clothes were flapping wet 
about me. 

“ Perhaps the lieutenant would like to lie 


MY SUPERIOR OFFICER. 


73 


down,” said Madame Van Auken, pointing to 
a large and comfortable sofa in the corner of 
the room that we had entered. 

But Belt was too proud to do that, though 
it was needful to him. He sat down merely 
and continued to shiver. Mistress Kate came 
presently with a large draught of hot whisky 
and water which smelled most savorously. She 
insisted that Belt drink it, and he swallowed 
it all, leaving none for me. Madame Van Auken 
placed a lighted candle upon a little table, and 
then both the ladies withdrew. 

Belt said he felt better, but he had a most 
wretched appearance. I insisted that he let me 
feel his pulse, and I found he was bordering 
upon a high fever, and most likely, if precau- 
tions were not taken, would soon be out of his 
senses. The wet clothes were the chief trouble, 
and I said they must come off. Belt demurred 
for a while, but he consented at last when I told 
him persistent refusal might mean his death. 

I roused up the ladies again, explaining the 
cause of this renewed interruption, and secured 
from them their sympathy and a large bedquilt. 
I made Belt take off his uniform, and then I 
spread the quilt over him as he lay on the sofa, 


74 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


telling him to go to sleep. He said he had no 
such intention; but a second hot draught of 
whisky which Kate brought to the door gave 
him the inclination, if not the intention. But 
he fought against it, and his will was aided by 
the sudden revival of sounds which betokened 
that the skirmishing had begun again. Through 
the window I heard the faint patter of rifles, 
but the shots were too distant, or the night too 
dark to disclose the flash. This sudden spurt 
of warlike activity told me once again that the 
great crisis was approaching fast, and I hoped 
most earnestly that events at the Van Auken 
house would culminate first. 

Belt was still struggling against weakness 
and sleep, and he complained fretfully when he 
heard the rifle shots, bemoaning his fate to be 
seized by a wretched, miserable chill at such a 
time. 

“ Perhaps after all the battle may be fought 
without me,” said he with unintended humor. 

I assured him that he would be all right in 
the morning. His resistance to sleep, I told 
him, was his own injury, for it was needful to his 
health. He took me at my word and let his 
eyelids droop. I foresaw that he would be 


MY SUPERIOR OFFICER. 


75 


asleep very soon, but he roused up a bit pres- 
ently and showed anxiety about the guard. He 
wanted to be sure that everything was done 
right, and asked me to go out and see White- 
stone, whom we had left in charge when we 
entered the house. 

I was averse in no particular and slipped 
quietly out into the darkness. I found White- 
stone in the valley. 

“ All quiet,” he reported. “ I’ve just come 
from a round of the sentinels and there’s noth- 
ing suspicious. I’m going back myself present- 
ly to watch in front of the house.” 

I knew Whitestone would ask no questions, 
so I told him the lieutenant was still very ill 
and I would return to him; I did not know 
how long I would stay in the house, I said. 
Whitestone, like the good, silent fellow he was, 
made no reply. 

I returned to the front door. I was now 
learning the way into the house very well. I 
had traveled it often enough. I stood for a 
moment in the little portico, which was as clean 
and white as if washed by the sea. The rain 
had nearly ceased to fall, and the blaze of the 

distant skirmishing suddenly flared up on the 
6 


76 THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

dark horizon like a forest fire. I wondered not 
that the two women in the house should be 
moved by all this; I wondered rather at their 
courage. In the yard stood Whitestone, his 
figure rising up as stiff and straight as a post. 


CHAPTER VI. 


belt’s ghost. 

I found Belt fast asleep. The two draughts 
of whisky, heavy and hot, had been a blanket 
to his senses, and he had gone off for a while to 
another world to think and to struggle still, for 
he muttered and squirmed in his restless slum- 
ber. His hand when I touched it was yet hot 
with feVer. He might, most likely would, be 
better when he awoke in the morning, but he 
would be flat aback the remainder of the night. 
He could conduct no further search in that 
house before the next day. 

I was uncertain what to do, whether to re- 
main there with Belt or go out and help White- 
stone with the watch. Duty to our cause said 
the latter, but in truth other voices are some- 
times as loud as that of duty. I listened to one 
of the other. 

I drew a chair near to Belt’s couch and sat 
77 


78 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


down. He was still muttering in his hot, sweaty 
sleep like one with anger at things, and now 
and then threw out his long thin legs and arms. 
He looked like a man tied down trying to 
escape. 

The candle still burned on the table, but its 
light was feeble at best. Shadows filled the 
corners of the room. I like sick-bed watches 
but little, and least of all such as that. They 
make me feel as if I had lost my place in a 
healthy world. To such purpose was I think- 
ing when Belt sat up with a suddenness that 
made me start, and cried in a voice cracked 
with fever: 

“ Shelby, are you there? ” 

“ Yes, I’m here,” I replied with a cheeriness 
that I did not feel. “ Lie down and go to 
sleep, lieutenant, or you’ll be a week getting 
well.” 

“ I can’t go to sleep, and I haven’t been to 
sleep,” he said, raising his voice, which had a 
whistling note of illness in it. 

His eyes sparkled, and I could see that the 
machinery of his head was working badly. I 
took him by the shoulders with intent to force 
him down upon the couch; but he threw me 


BELT’S GHOST. 


79 

off with sudden energy that took me by sur- 
prise. 

“ Let me go,” he said, “ till I say what I 
want to say.” 

“Well, what is it?” I asked, thinking to 
pacify him. 

“ Shelby,” said he, belief showing all over his 
face, “ Fve seen a ghost! ” 

A strong desire to laugh was upon me, but 
I did not let it best me, for I had respect for 
Belt, who was my superior officer. I don’t be- 
lieve in ghosts; they never come to see me. 

“ You’re sick, and you’ve been dreaming, 
lieutenant,” I said. “ Go to sleep.” 

“ I’ll try to go to sleep,” he replied, “ but 
what I say is truth, and I’ve seen a ghost.” 

“ What did it look like? ” I asked, remem- 
bering that it is best to fall in with the humor 
of mad people. 

“ Like a woman,” he replied, “ and that’s all 
I can say on that point, for this cursed fever has 
drawn a veil over my eyes. I had shut them, 
trying to go to sleep, but something kept pull- 
ing my eyelids apart, and open they came again; 
there was the ghost, the ghost of a woman; it 
had come through the wall, I suppose. It 


8o 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


floated all around the room as if it were look- 
ing for something, but not making a breath of 
a noise, like a white cloud sailing through the 
air. I tell you, Shelby, I was in fear, for I had 
never believed in such things, and I had laughed 
at them.” 

“ What became of the ghost? ” I asked. 

“ It went away just like it came, through 
the wall, I guess,” said Belt. “ All I know is 
that I saw it, and then I didn’t’. And I want 
you to stay with me, Shelby; don’t leave me! ” 

This time I laughed, and on purpose. I 
wanted to chirk Belt up a bit, and I thought 
I could do it by ridiculing such a fever dream. 
But I could not shake the conviction in him. 
Instead, his temper took heat at my lack of 
faith. Then I affected to believe, which soothed 
him, and exhaustion falling upon him I saw 
that either he would slumber again or weakness 
would steal his senses. I thought to ease his 
mind, and told him everything outside was 
going well; that Whitestone was the best sen- 
tinel in the world, and not even a lizard could 
creep past him though the night might be 
black as coal. Whereat he smiled, and present- 
ly turning over on his side began to mutter, 


BELT’S GHOST. 


8l 


by which I knew that a hot sleep was again 
laying hold of him. 

After the rain it had turned very warm again, 
and I opened the window for unbreathed air. 
Belt’s request that I stay with him, given in a 
sort of delirium though it was, made good ex- 
cuse for my remaining. If ever he said any- 
thing about it I could allege his own words. 

The candle burned down more on one side 
than on the other and its blaze leaned over like 
a man sick. It served but to distort. 

I looked at Belt and wondered why the 
mind too should grow weak, as it most often 
does when disease lays hold of the body. In his 
healthy senses, Belt — who, like most New Eng- 
landers, believed only what he saw — would have 
jeered at the claims of a ghost. There was little 
credulity in that lank, bony frame. 

But I stopped short in such thoughts, for I 
noticed that which made my blood quicken in 
surprise. Belt’s uniform was gone. I rose and 
looked behind the couch, thinking the lieu- 
tenant in his uneasy squirmings might have 
knocked it over there. But he had not done 
so; nor was it elsewhere in the room. It had 
gone clean away — perhaps through the wall, like 


82 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


Belt’s ghost. I wondered what Whitestone’s 
emotions would be if a somewhat soiled and 
worn Continental uniform, with no flesh and 
bones in it, should come walking down his beat. 

I understood that it was a time for me to 
think my best, and I set about it. I leaned back 
in my chair and stared at the wall in the manner 
of those who do strenuous thinking. I shifted 
my gaze but once, and then to put it upon Belt, 
who I concluded would not come back to earth 
for a long time. 

At the end of ten minutes I rose from my 
chair and went out into the hall, leaving the 
candle still burning on the table. Perhaps I, 
too, might find a ghost. I did not mean to lose 
the opportunity which might never seek me 
again. 

The hall ran the full width of the house and 
was broad. There was a window at the end, 
but the light was so faint I could scarce see, 
and in the corners and near the walls so much 
dusk was gathered that the eye was of no use 
there. Yet, by much stealing about and reach- 
ing here and there with my hands, I convinced 
myself that no ghost lurked in that hall. But 
there was a stairway leading into an upper hall, 


BELT’S GHOST. §3 

and, as silent as a ghost myself, for which I take 
pride, I stole up the steps. 

Just before I reached the top step I heard 
a faint shuffling noise like that which a heavy 
and awkward ghost with poor use of himself 
would most likely make. Nay, I have heard 
that ghosts never make noise, but I see no rea- 
son why they shouldn’t, at least a little. 

I crouched down in the shadow of the top 
step and the banisters. The faint shuffling 
noise came nearer, and Belt’s lost uniform, up- 
right and in its proper shape, drifted past me 
and down the steps. I followed lightly. I was 
not afraid. I have never heard, at least not 
with the proper authenticity, that ghosts strike 
one, or do other deeds of violence; so I fol- 
lowed, secure in my courage. The brass but- 
tons on the uniform gleamed a little, and I kept 
them in clear view. Down the steps went the 
figure, and then it sped along the hall, with me 
after it. It reached the front door, opened it 
half a foot and stood there. That was my op- 
portunity to hold discussion with a ghost, and I 
did not neglect it. Forward I slipped and 
tapped with my fingers an arm of the uniform, 
which inclosed not empty air but flesh and 


8 4 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


blood. Startled, the figure faced about and saw 
my features, for a little light came in at the 
door. 

“ I offer congratulations on your speedy re- 
covery from fever, Lieutenant Belt,” I said, in 
a subdued tone. 

“ It was quick, it is true,” he replied, “ but 
I need something more.” 

“ What is that?” I asked. 

“ Fresh air,” he replied. “ I think I will go 
outside.” 

“ I will go with you,” I said. “ Fevers are 
uncertain, and one can not tell what may hap- 
pen.” 

He hesitated as if he would make demur, 
but I said: 

“ It is necessary to both of us.” 

He hesitated no longer, but opened the door 
wider and stepped out into the portico. I 
looked with much anxiety to see what sort of 
watch was kept, and no doubt my companion 
did the same. It was good. Three sentinels 
were in sight. Directly in front of us, and about 
thirty feet away, was Whitestone. The skir- 
mishers and their rifles had not yet gone to 
sleep, for twice while we stood on the por- 


BELT’S GHOST. 85 

tico we saw the flash of powder on the distant 
hills. 

“ Lieutenant, I think we had best walk in 
the direction of the firing and make a little in- 
vestigation, I said. 

“ The idea is good,” he replied. “ We will 
do it.” 

We walked down the steps and into the 
yard. I was slightly in advance, leading the 
way. We passed within a dozen feet of White- 
stone, who saluted. 

“ Sergeant,” said I, “ Lieutenant Belt, who 
feels much better, and I, wish to inquire further 
into the skirmishing. There may be some sig- 
nificance for us in it. We will return present- 

iy.” 

Whitestone saluted again and said nothing. 
Once more I wish to commend Whitestone as 
a jewel. He did not turn to look at us 
when we passed him, but stalked up and 
down as if he were a wooden figure moving on 
hinges. 

We walked northward, neither speaking. 
Some three or four hundred yards from the 
house both of us stopped. Then I put my hand 
upon his arm again. 


86 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ Albert,” I said, “ your fortune is far better 
than you deserve, or ever will deserve.” 

“ I don’t know about that,” he replied. 

“ I do,” I said. “ Now, beyond those hills 
are the camp-fires of Burgoyne. You came thus 
far easily enough in your effort to get out, 
though Martyn, who came with you, failed, and 
you can go back the same way; but, before you 
start, take off Belt’s uniform. I won’t have 
you masquerading as an American officer.” 

Without a word he took off the Continental 
uniform and stood in the citizen’s suit in which 
I had first seen him, Belt being a larger man 
than he. I rolled them up in a bundle and put 
the bundle under my arm. 

“ Shake hands,” he said. “ You’ve done 
me a good turn.” 

“ Several of them,” I said, as I shook his 
hand, “ which is several more than you have 
done for me.” 

“ I don’t bear you any grudge on that ac- 
count,” he said with a faint laugh, as he strode 
off in the darkness toward Burgoyne’s army. 

Which, I take it, was handsome of him. 

I watched him as long as I could. You may 
not be able sometimes to look in the darkness 


BELT’S GHOST. 


37 


and find a figure, but when that figure departs 
from your side and you never take your eyes 
off it, you can follow it for a long way through 
the night. Thus I could watch Albert a hun- 
dred yards or more, and I saw that he veered 
in no wise from the course I had assigned to 
him, and kept his face turned to the army of 
Burgoyne. But I had not doubted that he 
would keep his word and would not seek to 
escape southward; nor did I doubt that he 
would reach his comrades in safety. 

I turned away, very glad that he was gone. 
Friends cause much trouble sometimes, but 
girls’ brothers cause more. 

I took my thoughts away from him and 
turned them to the business of going back into 
the house with the wad of uniform under my 
arm, which was very simple if things turned 
out all right. I believed that Whitestone would 
be on guard at the same place, which was what 
I wanted. I knew Whitestone would be the 
most vigilant of all the sentinels, but I was ac- 
customed to him. One prefers to do business 
with a man one knows. 

I sauntered back slowly, now and then turn- 
ing about on my heels as if I would spy out the 


88 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


landscape, which in truth was pretty well hid 
by the thickness of the night. 

As I approached the yard my heart gave a 
thump like a hammer on the anvil; but there 
was Whitestone on the same beat,, and my heart 
thumped again, but with more consideration 
than before. 

I entered the yard, and Whitestone saluted 
with dignity. 

“ Sergeant,” said I, “ Lieutenant Belt is 
looking about on the other side of the house. 
He fears that his fever is coming on him again, 
and he will re-enter the house, but by the back 
door. I am to meet him there.” 

Sergeant Whitestone saluted again. I said 
naught of the bundle in the crook of my arm, 
which he could plainly see. 

“ Sergeant,” said I, “ what do you think of 
a man who tells all he knows? ” 

“ Very little, sir,” he replied. 

“ So do I,” I said; “ but be that as it may, 
you know that you and I are devoted to the 
patriot cause.” 

“Aye, truly, sir!” he said. 

We saluted each other again with great re- 
spect, and I passed into the house. 


BELT’S GHOST. 


89 

Belt was still asleep upon the sofa and his 
fever was going down, though he talked now 
and then of the things that were on his brain 
when awake. The candle was dying, the tallow 
sputtering as the blaze reached the last of it, 
and without another the thickness of the night 
would be upon us. 

I ascended the stairway into the upper hall 
again, but this time with no attempt to rival 
a ghost in smoothness of motion. Instead, I 
stumbled about like a man in whose head hot 
punch has set everything to dancing. Present- 
ly Mistress Kate, bearing a candle in her hand 
and dressed as if for the day — at which I was not 
surprised — appeared from the side door. 

I begged her for another candle, if the supply 
in the house were not exhausted, and stepping 
back she returned in a moment with what I 
desired; then in a tone of much sympathy 
she inquired as to the state of Lieutenant Belt’s 
health. I said he was sleeping peacefully, and 
suggested that she come and look at him, as she 
might have sufficient knowledge of medicine 
to assist me in the case. To which she con- 
sented, though ever one of the most modest of 
maidens. 


9 o 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


I held the candle near Belt’s face, but in such 
position that the light would not shine into his 
eyes and awaken him. 

“ But the lieutenant would rather be on his 
feet again and in these garments,” I said, turn- 
ing the light upon Belt’s uniform, which I had 
carefully spread out again on the foot of the 
couch. Then I added: 

“ The wearer of that uniform has had many 
adventures, doubtless, but he has not come to 
any harm yet.” 

I might have talked further, but I knew that 
naught more was needed for Kate Van Auken. 

Moreover, no words could ever be cited 
against me. 


CHAPTER VII. 
in burgoyne’s camp. 

Belt awoke the next morning in fairly good 
health, but very sour of temper. Like some 
other people whom I know, he seemed to hold 
everybody he met personally responsible for his 
own misfortunes, which I take it is most dis- 
agreeable for all concerned. He spoke to me 
in most churlish manner, though I am fair to 
say I replied in similar fashion, which for some 
reason seemed to cause him discontent. Then 
he went out and quarreled with Whitestone 
and the others, who had been doing their duty 
in complete fashion. 

But a few minutes after he had gone out, 
Madame Van Auken, who was a lady in the 
highest degree, though a Tory one, came to me 
and said she and her daughter had prepared 
breakfast; scanty, it is true, for the rebels had 
passed that way too often, but it would most 
7 91 


9 2 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


likely be better than army fare, and would be 
good for invalids; would I be so kind as to 
ask Lieutenant Belt to come in and share it 
with them, and would I do them the further 
kindness to present myself at the breakfast also? 
I would be delighted, and I said so, also hurry- 
ing forth to find Belt, to whom I gave the in- 
vitation. He accepted in tone somewhat un- 
gracious, I thought, but improved in manner 
when he entered the presence of the ladies; for, 
after all, Belt was a gentleman, and I will admit 
that he had been unfortunate. As we went 
in to the breakfast table I said to Belt: 

“ You’ve come out of that chill and fever 
very well, lieutenant. You look a little weak, 
but all right otherwise.” 

“ You seem to have had your own worries,” 
he replied a bit slowly, “ for something has been 
painting night under your eyes.” 

Well, it was natural; it had been an anxious 
time for me in truth. But I suggested it was 
due to long night watches. 

The ladies, as they had said, had not a great 
deal to offer, but it was well prepared by their 
own hands. They had some very fine coffee, 
to which I am ever partial, especially in the 


IN BURGOYNE’S CAMP. 


93 


mornings, and we made most excellent progress 
with the breakfast, even Belt waxing amiable. 
But about the middle of the breakfast he asked 
quite suddenly of us all: 

“ Do you believe in ghosts? ” 

I was a bit startled, I will admit, but I re- 
joice to think that I did not show it. Instead, 
I looked directly at Mistress Kate, who in truth 
looked very handsome and lighted-hearted that 
morning, and asked: 

“ Do you believe in ghosts? ” 

“ Of a certainty — of a certainty,” she said 
with emphasis. 

“ So do I,” said I with equal emphasis. 

Madame Van Auken drank her coffee. 

“ I don’t,” said Belt. “ I thought I did for 
a while last night. I even thought I saw one 
while Shelby was away from me for a while.” 

I rallied Belt, and explained to the ladies 
that the fever had given him an illusion the 
night before. They joined me in the raillery, 
and trusted that the gallant lieutenant would 
not see double when he met his enemies.* Belt 
took it very well, better than I had thought. 
But after the breakfast, when we had withdrawn 
again, he said to me with a sour look: 


94 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ I do not trust those ladies, Shelby.” 

“ Well, as for that,” I replied, “ I told you 
that Madame Van Auken was a hot Tory, of 
which fact she seeks to make no concealment. 
But I don’t see what harm they could do us, 
however much they might wish it.” 

“ Maybe,” he said; then with a sudden 
change: 

“ Why did you say this morning that you 
believed in ghosts, when last night you said you 
didn’t? ” 

I fixed upon him the sharp stare of one 
amazed at such a question. 

“ Belt,” said I, “ I am a believer in ghosts. 
I am also a devout believer in the report that 
the moon is made of moldy green cheese.” 

He sniffed a bit, and let me alone on that 
point, but he returned to the attack on the 
ladies. I do not know what idea had found 
lodgment in his head; in truth it may have 
been due to biliousness, but he suspected them 
most strongly of what he called treasonable 
correspondence with the enemy. I asked him 
what course he intended to take in the matter, 
and he returned a vague answer; but I soon 
received intimation of his purpose, for in an 


IN BURGOYNE’S CAMP. 


95 


hour, leaving me in charge for the time, he re- 
turned to the army. He made a quick trip, and 
when he came back he told me he had reported 
the case at headquarters. The general, not 
knowing what else to do with the ladies, had 
directed that they be sent to Burgoyne’s army, 
where, he understood, they had relatives. 

“ He said to me,” said Belt, “ that at this 
time it would be just as well for the British to 
take care of their own.” 

Reflecting a little, I decided that the matter 
had fallen out very well. If they were in Bur- 
goyne’s camp it would release us all from some 
troubles and doubts. 

“ You had best go into the house and notify 
them,” said Belt, “ for they are to be taken to 
Burgoyne under a white flag this very after- 
noon.” 

I found Mistress Kate first and told her what 
Belt had done. She did not seem to be much 
surprised. In truth, she said she had expect- 
ed it. 

“ I trust, Mistress Kate,” I said, “ that while 
you are in Burgoyne’s army you will not let 
your opinions be influenced too much by your 
surroundings.” 


9 6 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ My opinions are my own,” she said, “ and 
are not dependent upon time and place.” 

Then I said something about its being a pity 
that Captain Chudleigh was a prisoner in our 
hands at such a time and was not with his own 
army, but she gave me such a sharp answer that 
I was glad to shut my mouth. 

Madame Van Auken said she was glad to 
go, but she would revisit her house when she 
came southward with Burgoyne after he had 
scattered the rebels, provided the rebels 
in the meantime had not burned the house 
down. Which, considering many things, I felt 
I could overlook. Both promised to be ready 
in an hour. I went outside and found that Belt 
was able to surprise me again. 

“ You are to take the ladies into Burgoyne’s 
camp,’’ he said. “ I wished to do it myself, but 
I was needed for other work.” 

I was not at all averse to this task, though 
it had never occurred to me that I would enter 
the British lines, except possibly as a prisoner. 

“ I wish you luck,” said Belt, somewhat en- 
viously. “ I think the trip into the British lines 
is worth taking.” 

Right here I may say — for Belt does not 


IN BURGOYNE’S CAMP. 


97 


come into this narration again — that after the 
war I told him the whole story of these affairs, 
which he enjoyed most heartily, and is at this 
day one among my best friends. 

The preliminaries about the transfer of the 
ladies to Burgoyne’s camp were but few, though 
I was exposed on the way to much censure from 
Madame Van Auken because of my rebel pro- 
clivities. In truth, Mistress Catherine, I think, 
took after her deceased and lamented father 
rather than her mother, who I knew had made 
the signal of the light to Martyn, and to Albert, 
who was on foot near him. But I bore it very 
well, inasmuch as one can grow accustomed to 
almost anything. 

I found that during my few days’ absence 
our army had pushed up much closer to Bur- 
goyne, and also that we had increased greatly 
in numbers. Nothing could save Burgoyne, 
so I heard, but the arrival of Clinton from New 
York with heavy re-enforcements, and even 
then, at the best for Burgoyne, it would be but 
a problem. My heart swelled with that sudden 
elation one feels when a great reward looks cer- 
tain after long trial. 

Protected by the flag of truce we ap- 


9 8 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


proached Burgoyne’s lines. There were but 
the three of us, the two ladies and I. Mistress 
Kate was very silent; Madame Van Auken, for 
whom I have the utmost respect, be her opin- 
ions what they may, did the talking for all 
three. She was in somewhat exuberant mood, 
as she expected to rejoin her son, thus having 
all her immediate family together under the flag 
that she loved. She had no doubt that Bur- 
goyne would beat us. I could not make out 
Mistress Kate’s emotions, nor in truth whether 
she had any; but just after we were hailed by 
the first British sentinel she said to me with 
an affectation of lightness, though she could 
not keep her voice from sounding sincere: 

“ My brother will never forget what you 
have done for him, Dick.” 

“ He may or may not,” I replied, “ but I 
hope your brother’s sister will not.” 

Which may not have been a very gallant 
speech, but I will leave it to every just man 
if I had not endured a good deal in silence. 
She did not take any exceptions to my reply, 
but smiled, which I did not know whether to 
consider a good or bad sign. 
k I showed a letter from one of our generals to 


IN BURGOYNE’S CAMP. 


99 


the sentinel, and we were quickly passed through 
the lines. We were received by Captain Jervis, 
a British officer of much politeness, and I ex- 
plained to him that the two ladies whom I was 
proud to escort were the mother and sister of 
Albert Van Auken, who should be with Bur- 
goyne’s army. He answered at once that he 
knew Albert, and had seen him not an hour 
before. Thereat the ladies rejoiced greatly, 
knowing that Albert was safe so far; which 
perhaps, to my mind, was better luck than he 
deserved. But in ten minutes he was brought 
to us, and embraced his mother and sister with 
great warmth; then shaking hands with me — 

“ I’m sorry to see you a prisoner, Dick, my 
lad,” he said easily, “ especially after you’ve 
been so obliging to me. But it’s your bad 
luck.” 

“ I’m not a prisoner,” I replied with some 
heat, “ though you and all the rest of Bur- 
goyne’s men are likely soon to be. I merely 
came here under a flag of truce to bring your 
mother and sister, and put them out of the way 
of cannon balls.” 

He laughed at my boast, and said Burgoyne 
would soon resume his promenade to New 


IOO 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


York. Then he bestirred himself for the com- 
fort of his mother and sister. He apologized 
for straitened quarters, but said he could 
place them in some very good company, includ- 
ing the Baroness Riedesel and Madame the 
wife of General Fraser, at which Madame Van 
Auken, who was always fond of people of qual- 
ity, especially when the quality was indicated by 
a title, was pleased greatly. And in truth they 
were welcomed most hospitably by the wives 
of the British and Hessian officers with Bur- 
goyne’s army, who willingly shared with them 
the scarcity of food and lodging they had to 
offer. When I left them, Mistress Catherine 
said to me with a saucy curve of the lip, as if she 
would but jest: 

“ Take good care of yourself, Dick, and my 
brother’s sister will try not to forget you.” 

“ Thank you,” I said, “ and if it falls in my 
way to do a good turn for Captain Chudleigh 
while he is our prisoner, I will take full advan- 
tage of it.” 

At this she was evidently displeased, though 
somehow I was not. 

Albert Van Auken took charge of me, and 
asked me into a tent to meet some of his fellow 


IN BURGOYNE’S CAMP. 


IOI 


officers and take refreshment; which invitation 
I promptly accepted, for in those days an Ameri- 
can soldier, with wisdom born of trial, never 
neglected a chance to get something good to 
eat or to drink. 

On my way I observed the condition of Bur- 
goyne’s camp. It was in truth a stricken army 
that he led — or rather did not lead, for it seemed 
now to be stuck fast. The tents and the wagons 
were filled with the sick and the wounded, and 
many not yet entirely well clustered upon the 
grass seeking such consolation as they could 
find in the talk of each other. The whole in 
body, rank and file, sought to preserve a gal- 
lant demeanor, though in spite of it a certain 
depression was visible on almost every face. 
Upon my soul I was sorry for them, enemies 
though they were, and the greater their mis- 
fortune the greater cause we had for joy, which, 
I take it, is one of the grievous things about 
war. 

It was a large tent into which Albert took 
me, and I met there Captain Jervis and several 
other officers, two or three of whom seemed 
to be of higher rank than captain, though I 
did not exactly catch their names, for Albert 


102 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


spoke somewhat indistinctly when making the 
introductions. There seemed to be a degree of 
comfort in the tent — bottles, glasses, and other 
evidences of social warmth. 

“ We wish to be hospitable to a gallant 
enemy like yourself, Mr. Shelby/’ said Captain 
Jervis, “ and are not willing that you should 
return to your own army without taking re- 
freshment with us.” 

I thanked him for his courtesy, and said I 
was quite willing to be a live proof of their 
hospitality; whereupon they filled the glasses 
with a very unctuous, fine-flavored wine, and we 
drank to the health of the wide world. It had 
been long since good wine had passed my lips, 
and when they filled the glasses a second time 
I said in my heart that they were gentlemen. 
At the same time I wondered to myself a bit 
why officers of such high rank, as some of these 
seemed to be, should pay so much honor to me, 
who was but young and the rank of whom was 
but small. Yet I must confess that this slight 
wonder had no bad effect upon the flavor of the 
wine. 

Some eatables of a light and delicate nature 
were handed around by an orderly, and all of us 


IN BURGOYNE’S CAMP. 


103 

partook, after which we drank a third glass of 
wine. Then the officers talked most agreeably 
about a variety of subjects, even including the 
latest gossip they had brought with them from 
the Court of St. James. Then we took a fourth 
glass of wine. I am not a heavy drinker, as 
heavy drinkers go, and have rather a strong 
head, but a humming of the distant sea began 
in my ears and the talk moved far away. I 
foresaw that Richard Shelby had drunk enough, 
and that it was time for me to exercise my 
strongest will over his somewhat rebellious 
head. 

“ I suppose that you Americans are very 
sanguine just now, and expect to take our en- 
tire army/’ said the oldest and apparently the 
highest of the officers — colonel or general, some- 
thing or other — to me. 

I noted that he was overwhelmingly polite 
in tone. Moreover, my will was acquiring 
mastery over Dick Shelby’s humming head. 
I made an ambiguous reply, and he went 
further into the subject of the campaign, the 
other officers joining him and indulging slight- 
ly in jest at our expense, as if they would lead 
me on to boast. To make a clean confession in 


104 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


the matter, I felt some inclination to a little 
vaunting. He said something about our hope 
to crush Burgoyne, and laughed as if it were 
quite impossible. 

“ English armies are never taken,” said he. 

“ But they have never before warred with 
the Americans,” I said. 

I recalled afterward that some of the officers 
applauded me for that reply, which was strange 
considering their sympathies. The old officer 
showed no offense. 

“ Have you heard that Sir Henry Clinton 
is coming to our relief with five thousand 
men? ” he asked. 

“ No; have you? ” I replied. 

I was applauded again, and the officer 
laughed. 

“ You take me up quickly. You have a keen 
mind, Mr. Shelby; it’s a pity you’re not one of 
us,” he said. 

“ That would be bad for me,” I said, “ as I 
do not wish to become a prisoner.” 

This was a bit impertinent and ungenerous, 
I will admit, but I had drunk four glasses of 
wine and they were nagging me. They filled 
up the glasses again, and most of them drank, 


IN BURGOYNE’S CAMP. 


105 


but I only sipped mine, meanwhile strengthen- 
ing my rule over Dick Shelby’s mutinous head. 
The officer laughed easily at my reply and be- 
gan to talk about the chances of the next battle, 
which he was sure the British would win. He 
said Burgoyne had six thousand men, English 
and Hessians, and in quite a careless way he 
asked how many we had. 

By this time I had Dick Shelby’s unruly 
head under complete control, and his question, 
lightly put as it was, revealed their whole plan. 
Right then and there I felt a most painful re- 
gret that I had not given Albert Van Auken the 
worst beating of his life when I had the chance. 

I replied that I could not say exactly how 
many men we had, but the number was some- 
where between a thousand and a million, and 
at any rate sufficient for the purpose. He 
laughed gently as if he were willing to tolerate 
me, and continued to put questions in manner 
sly and most insidious. I returned answers 
vague or downright false, and I could see that 
the officer was becoming vexed at his want of 
success. Albert himself filled up my glass and 
urged me to drink again. 

“ You know, Dick, you don’t get good wine 


I0 6 THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

often,” he said, “ and this may be your last 
chance.” 

Had not I been a guest I would have cre- 
ated, right then and there, a second opportunity 
for giving Albert the worst beating of his life. 
I pretended to drink, though I merely sipped 
the fumes. The elderly officer changed his tac- 
tics a little. 

“ Do you think your generals are well in- 
formed about us? ” he asked. 

“ Oh, yes,” I replied. 

“ How? ” 

“ We learn from prisoners,” I said, “ and 
then, perhaps, we ask sly questions from Eng- 
lishmen who come to us under flags of truce.” 

“ What do you mean? ” he asked, his face 
— and I was glad to see it — reddening. 

“ I mean,” said I, “ that you have brought 
me into this tent with purpose to intoxicate 
me and get valuable information from me. It 
was a plot unworthy of gentlemen.” 

He rose to his feet, his eyes flashing with 
much anger. But the wine I had drunk made 
me very belligerent. I was ready to fight a 
thousand — come one, come all. Moreover, I 
leave it to all if I did not have just cause for 


IN BURGOYNE’S CAMP. 


107 

wrath. I turned from the officer to Albert, 
against whom my indignation burned most. 

“ I have just saved you from death, perhaps 
a most degrading death,” I said, “ and I am 
loath to remind you of it, but I must, in order 
to tell your fellow officers I am sorry I did it.” 

I never saw a man turn redder, and he trem- 
bled all over. It was the scarlet of shame, too, 
and not of righteous anger. 

“ Dick,” he said, “ I beg your pardon. I 
let my zeal for our cause go too far. I — I ” 

I think he would have broken down, but 
just then the elderly officer interfered. 

“ Be silent, Lieutenant Van Auken,” he 
said. “ It is not your fault, nor that of any other 
present except myself. You speak truth, Mr. 
Shelby, when you say it was unworthy of us. 
So it was. I am glad it failed, and I apologize 
for the effort to make it a success. Mr. Shelby, 
I am glad to know you.” 

He held out his hand with such frank manli- 
ness and evident good will that I grasped it and 
shook it heartily. What more he might have 
said or done I do not know, for just then we 
were interrupted by the sound of a great 

though distant shouting. 

8 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A NIGHT UNDER FIRE. 

The shouting begat curiosity in us all, and 
we left the tent, the elderly officer leading. I 
perceived at once that the noise came from our 
lines, which were pushed up very close to those 
of the British and were within plain hearing 
distance. Among the trees and bushes, which 
were very dense at points, I could see in the 
brilliant sunshine the flash of rifle barrel and 
the gleam of uniform. The shouting was great 
in volume, swelling like a torrent rising to the 
flood. 

I remained by the side of the old officer. He 
seemed anxious. 

“What is it? What can that mean? It 
must be something important,” he asked as 
much of himself as of me. 

The reply was ready for him, as some Eng- 
lish skirmishers came forward with an American 
108 


A NIGHT UNDER FIRE. 


IO9 


prisoner whom they had taken but a few mo- 
ments before. The man was but a common 
soldier, ragged, but intelligent. The officer put 
to him his question about the shouting, which 
had not yet subsided. 

“ That was a welcome,” said the prisoner. 

“ A welcome! What do you mean by that? ” 

“ Simply that more re-enforcements have 
come from the south.” 

The officer grew even graver. 

“ More men always coming for them and 
never any for us,” he said, almost under his 
breath. 

I had it in mind to suggest that I be re- 
turned at once to my own army, but the arrival 
of the troops or other cause created a sudden 
recrudescence of the skirmishing. Piff-paff 
chanted the rifles; zip-zip chirped the bullets. 
Little blades of flame spurted up among the 
bushes, and above them rose the white curls of 
smoke like baby clouds. On both sides the 
riflemen were at work. 

The officer looked about him as if he in- 
tended to give some special orders, and then 
seemed to think better of it. A bullet passed 
through the tent we had just left. I felt that 


IIO THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

my American uniform took me out of the list 
of targets. 

“ Your sharpshooters seem to have come 
closer,” said the officer. “ Their bullets fell 
short this morning. I will admit they are good 
men with the rifle — better than ours.” 

“ These are countrymen,” I said. “ They 
have been trained through boyhood to the use 
of the rifle.” 

I was looking at the fringe of trees and 
bushes which half hid our lines. Amid the 
boughs of a- tall tree whose foliage was yet un- 
touched by autumn I saw what I took to be 
a man’s figure; but the leaves were so dense 
and so green I was not sure. Moreover, the 
man, if man it was, seemed to wear clothing of 
the hue of the leaves. I decided I was mis- 
taken; then I knew I had been right at first 
guess, for I saw the green body within the green 
curtain of leaves move out upon a bough and 
raise its head a little. The sun flashed upon a 
rifle barrel, and the next instant the familiar 
curl of white smoke rose from its muzzle. 

The officer had opened his mouth to speak 
to me, but the words remained unspoken. His 
face went pale as if all the blood had suddenly 


A NIGHT UNDER FIRE. 


1 1 I 


gone out of him, and he flopped down like an 
emptied bag at my feet, shot through the heart. 

I was seized with a shivering horror. He 
was talking to me one moment and dead the 
next. His fall, seen by so many, created a con- 
fusion in the British lines. Several rushed for- 
ward to seize the body and carry it away. Just 
as the first man reached it, he too was slain by 
a hidden sharpshooter, and the two bodies lay 
side by side. 

Acting from impulse rather than thought, 
I lifted the officer by the shoulders and began 
to drag him back into the camp. Whether or 
not my uniform protected me I can not say, 
but I was hit by no bullet, though the skirmish- 
ing became so sharp and so hot that it rose al- 
most to the dignity of a battle. The officer’s 
body was withdrawn beyond the range of the 
sharpshooting and placed in a tent. Though 
he had sought to entrap me he had made hand- 
some apology therefor, and I mourned him as 
I would a friend. Why should men filled with 
mutual respect be compelled to shoot each 
other? 

Albert came to me there, and said in a very 
cold voice: 


12 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ Dick, this sudden outburst will compel 
you to remain our guest some time longer — 
perhaps through the night.” 

I turned my back upon him, and when he 
left I do not know, but when I looked that 
way again he was gone, for which I was in 
truth very glad. Yet I would have liked to 
ask him about Kate and her mother. I won- 
dered if they were safe from the stray bullets 
of the sharpshooters. 

In the stir of this strife at long range I 
seemed to be forgotten by the British, as I had 
been forgotten by my own people. My Con- 
tinental uniform was none of the brightest, and 
even those who noticed it apparently took me 
for a privileged prisoner. When I left the tent 
in which the officer’s body lay I came back 
toward the American army, but the patter of 
the bullets grew so lively around me that I 
retreated. It is bad enough to be killed by an 
enemy, I imagine, but still worse to be killed 
by a friend. 

The day was growing old and the night would 
soon be at hand. Our sharpshooters held such 
good positions that they swept most of the 
British camp. I do not claim to be a great 


A NIGHT UNDER FIRE. 


3 


military man, but I was convinced that if the 
British did not dislodge these sharpshooters 
their position would become untenable. The 
night, so far from serving them, would rather be 
a benefit to their enemies, for the lights in the 
British camp would guide the bullets of the 
hidden rifleman to their targets. 

The bustle in the camp increased, and I ob- 
served that details of men were sent to the 
front. They took off their bright coats, which 
were fine marks for the riflemen, and it was 
evident that they intended to match our sharp- 
shooters at their own business. Many of these 
men were Germans, who, I have heard, have 
always been accounted good marksmen in Eu- 
rope. 

Nobody caring about me, I took position on 
a little knoll where I could see and yet be beyond 
range. The sun, as if wishing to do his best 
before going down, was shining with marvelous 
brilliancy. The incessant pit-pat of the rifle fire, 
like the crackling of hail, drew all eyes toward 
the American line. It seemed to me that only 
the speedy coming of the night could prevent 
a great battle. 

The crackling flared up suddenly into a vol- 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


1 14 

ley, betokening the arrival of the fresh British 
skirmishers at the point of action. The little 
white curls of smoke were gathering together 
and forming a great cloud overhead. Present- 
ly some wounded were taken past. 

There was a movement and gathering of 
men near me. Quite a body of soldiers, a com- 
pany, it seemed, were drawn up. Then, with 
fixed bayonets, they advanced upon the Ameri- 
can line. I guessed that the skirmishers were 
intended to attract the attention of our peo- 
ple, while this company hoped to clear the 
woods of the sharpshooters and release the 
British camp from their galling fire. The 
British advanced with gallantry. I give 
them credit for that always — that is, nearly 
always. 

The firing had reached an exceeding degree 
of activity, but I did not see any man in the 
company fall. By this I concluded that their 
skirmishers were keeping our own busy, and I 
was in some apprehension lest this strong squad 
should fall suddenly and with much force upon 
our outposts. Forward they went at a most live- 
ly pace and preserving a very even rank, their 
bayonets shining brightly in the late sun. The 


A NIGHT UNDER FIRE. 


5 


British boast much about their ability with 
the bayonet. We know less about ours, be- 
cause almost our only way of getting bayonets 
was to take them from the British, which we 
did more than once. 

Two or three British officers gathered on 
the knoll to watch the movement. Among 
these was Captain Jervis, whom I liked well. 
He spoke pleasantly to me, and said, pointing 
at the company which was now very near to 
the wood: 

“ That charge, I think, is going to be a suc- 
cess, Mr. Shelby, and your sharpshooters will 
find it more comfortable to keep a little far- 
ther away from us.” 

He spoke with a certain pride, as if he would 
hold our people a little more cheaply than his 
own. 

I made no reply, for another and . better 
answer from a different source was ready. There 
was a very vivid blaze from the wood and the 
crash of a heavy volley. The head of the col- 
umn was shattered, nay, crushed, and the body 
of it reeled like a man to whom has been dealt 
a stunning blow. It was apparent that our 
people had seen the movement and had gath- 


n6 THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

ered in force in the wood to repel it, striking at 
the proper moment. 

The company rallied and advanced most 
bravely a second time to the charge; but the 
flash of the rifles was so steady and so fast that 
the woods seemed to be spouting fire. The 
British fell back quickly and then broke into 
a discreet run into their own encampment. 

“ You will perceive,” said I to Captain Jer- 
vis, “ that our people have not yet retired for 
the night.” 

He laughed a little, though on the wrong 
side of his mouth. I could see that he felt 
chagrin, and so I said no more on that point. 

As if by concert our sharpshooters also 
pushed up closer, and being so much better at 
that business drove in those of Burgoyne. 
The Germans, in particular, knowing but little 
of forests, fared badly. 

Though I was neither in it nor of it, I felt 
much elation at our little triumph. In truth 
the consequences, if not important of them- 
selves, were significant of greater things. They 
showed that Burgoyne’s beleaguered battalions 
could rest hope only on two things, the arrival 
of Clinton or victory in a pitched battle. But 


A NIGHT UNDER FIRE. 


II 7 

now Burgoyne could not even protect his own 
camp. It was reached in many parts by the fire 
of the sharpshooters drawn in a deadly ring 
around it. The night came, and as far as pos- 
sible the lights in the camp were put out, but 
the firing went on, and no British sentinel was 
safe at his post. 


CHAPTER IX. 


MY GUIDE. 

I remember no night in which I saw more 
misery. The sharpshooters never slept, and the 
dark seemed to profit them as much as the day. 
They enveloped the British camp like a swarm 
of unseen bees, all the more deadly because 
no man knew where they hovered nor whence 
nor when the sting would come. Men brave 
in the day are less brave at night, and every 
British officer I saw looked worn, and fearful of 
the future. I confess that I began to grow 
anxious on my own account, for in this dark- 
ness my old Continentals could not serve as 
a warning that I was no proper target. I have 
always preserved a high regard for the health 
and welfare of Richard Shelby, Esq., and I with- 
drew him farther into the camp. There I saw 
many wounded and more sick, and but scant 

means for their treatment. Moreover, the list 
118 


MY GUIDE. 


1 19 

of both was increasing, and even as I wandered 
about, the fresh-wounded were taken past me, 
sometimes crying out in their pain. 

There were many who took no part in the 
fighting — Tories who had come to the British 
camp with their wives and little children, and 
the wives of the English and Hessian officers 
who had come down from Canada with them, 
expecting a march of glory and triumph to 
New York. For these I felt most sorrow, as it 
is very cruel that women and children should 
have to look upon war. More than once I 
heard the lamentations of women and the 
frightened weeping of little children. Some- 
times the flaring torches showed me their scared 
faces. These non-combatants, in truth, were 
beyond the range of the fire, but the wounded 
men were always before them. 

It was but natural that amid so much tumult 
and suspense I should remain forgotten. My 
uniform, dingy in the brightest sun, was scarce 
noticeable in the half-lit dusk, and I wandered 
about the camp almost at will. The night was 
not old before I noticed the bustle of great 
preparations. Officers hurried about as if time 
of a sudden had doubled its value. Soldiers 


120 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


very anxiously examined their muskets and 
bayonets; cannon were wheeled into more com- 
pact batteries; more ammunition was gathered 
at convenient points. On all faces I saw ex- 
pectation. 

I thought at first that some night skirmish 
was intended, but the bustle and the hur- 
rying extended too much for that. I set 
about more thorough explorations, and it 
was easy enough to gather that Burgoyne 
intended to risk all in a pitched battle on 
the morrow. These were the preparations 
for it. 

Curiosity had taken away from me, for the 
moment, the desire to go back to my own 
people, but now it returned with double force. 
It was not likely that my warning of the com- 
ing battle could be of much value, for our forces 
were vigilant; but I had the natural desire of 
youth to be with our own army, and not with 
that of the enemy, at the coming of such a great 
event. 

But the chance for my return looked very 
doubtful. Both armies were too busy to pay 
heed to a flag of truce even if it could be seen 
in the night, 


MY GUIDE. 


1 2 1 


I wandered about looking for some means 
of escape to our own lines, and in seeking to 
reach the other side of the camp passed once 
more through the space in which the women 
and children lay. I saw a little one-roomed 
house, abandoned long since by its owners. The 
uncertain light from the window fought with 
the shadows outside. 

I stepped to the window, which was open, 
and looked in. They had turned the place into 
a hospital. A doctor with sharp instruments 
in his hand was at work. A woman with strong 
white arms, bare almost to the shoulder, was 
helping him. She turned away presently, her 
help not needed just then, and saw my face at 
the window. 

“ Dick,” she said in a tone low, but not too 
low to express surprise, “ why haven’t you re- 
turned to the army? ” 

“ Because I can’t, Kate,” I said. “ My flag 
of truce is forgotten, and the bullets are flying 
too fast through the dark for me to make a dash 
for it.” 

“ There should be a way.” 

“ Maybe, but I haven’t found it.” 

“ Albert ought to help you.” 


122 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ There are many things Albert ought to 
do which he doesn’t do,” I said. 

“ Don’t think too badly of him.” 

“ I think I’ll try to escape through the far 
side of the camp,” I said, nodding my head in 
the way I meant to go. 

“We owe you much, Dick, for what you 
have done for us,” she said, “ and we wish you 
safety on that account, and more so on your 
own account.” 

She put her hand out of the window and I 
squeezed it a little. 

Perhaps that was Chudleigh’s exclusive 
right. 

But she did not complain, and Chudleigh 
knew nothing about it. 

The British camp was surrounded, but on 
the side to which I was now coming the fire 
of the sharpshooters was more intermittent. It 
was the strongest part of the British lines, but 
I trusted that on such account the way for my 
escape would be more open there. At night, 
with so much confusion about, it would not be 
easy to guard every foot of ground. I walked 
very' slowly until I came almost to the out- 
skirts of the camp; then I stopped to consider. 


MY GUIDE. 


123 


In the part of the camp where I stood it was 
very dark. Some torches were burning in a 
half-hearted fashion forty or fifty feet away, but 
their own light only made the dusk around me 
the deeper. I was endeavoring to select the 
exact point at which I would seek to pass the 
lines, when some one touched me with light 
hand upon the shoulder. 

I turned my head and saw Albert Van 
Auken, clad in the same cloak he wore the night 
he tried to counterfeit his sister. I was about 
to walk away, for I still felt much anger toward 
him, when he touched me again with light 
hand, and said in such a low voice that I could 
scarce hear: 

“ I am going to pay you back, at least in 
part, Dick. I will help you to escape. Come! ” 

Well, I was glad that he felt shame at last 
for the way in which he had acted. It had taken 
him a long time to learn that he owed me any- 
thing. But much of my wrath against him de- 
parted. It was too dark for me to see the 
expression of shame which I knew must be 
inprinted upon his face, but on his account I 
was not sorry that I could not see it. 

He led the way, stepping very lightly, to- 
9 


124 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


ward a row of baggage wagons which seemed 
to have been drawn up as a sort of fortification. 
It looked like a solid line, and I wondered if he 
would attempt to crawl under them, but when 
we came nearer I saw an open space of half a 
yard or so between two of them. Albert slipped 
through this crack without a word, and I fol- 
lowed. On the other side he stopped for a few 
moments in the shadow of the wagons, and I, 
of course, imitated him. 

I could see sentinels to the right and to the 
left of us, walking about as if on beats. On the 
hills, not so very far from us, the camp-fires 
of the American army were burning. 

I perceived that it was a time for silence, 
and I waited for Albert to be leader, as perhaps 
knowing the ground better than I. A moment 
came presently when all the sentinels were some- 
what distant from us. He stepped forward 
with most marvelous lightness, and in a few 
breaths we were beyond the line of the sentinels. 
I thought there was little further danger, and 
I was much rejoiced, both because of my escape 
and because it was Albert who had done such a 
great service for me. 

“ I trust you will forgive me, Albert, for 


MY GUIDE. 


125 


some of the hard words I spoke to you,” I said. 
“ Remember that I spoke in anger and with- 
out full knowledge of you.” 

He put his fingers upon his lips as a sign 
for me to be silent, and continued straight ahead 
toward the American army. I followed. Some 
shots were fired, but we were in a sort of de- 
pression, and I had full confidence they were 
not intended for us, but were drawn by the 
lights in the British camp. Yet I believed 
that Albert had gone far enough. He had 
shown me the way, and no more was needed. 
I did not wish him to expose himself to our 
bullets. 

“ Go back, Albert,” I said. “ I know the 
way now, and I do not wish you to become our 
prisoner.” 

He would not pause until we had gone a rod 
farther. Then he pointed toward our camp- 
fires ahead, and turned about as if he would go 
back. 

“ Albert,” I said, “ let us forget what I said 
when in anger, and part friends.” 

I seized his hand in my grasp, though he 
sought to evade me. The hand was small and 
warm, and then I knew that the deception Al- 


126 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


bert had practiced upon me a night or so before 
had enabled Albert’s sister to do the same. 

“Kate!” I exclaimed. “Why have you 
done this? ” 

“ For you,” said she, snatching her hand 
from mine and fleeing so swiftly toward the 
British camp that I could not stop her. 

In truth I did not follow her, but mused 
for a moment on the great change a slouch 
hat, a long cloak, and a pair of cavalry boots 
can make in one’s appearance on a dark 
night. 

As I stood in the dark and she was going 
toward the light, I could watch her figure. I 
saw her pass between the wagons again and 
knew that she was safe. Then I addressed my- 
self to my own task. 

I stood in a depression of the ground, and 
on the hills, some hundreds of yards before me, 
our camp-fires glimmered. The firing on this 
side was so infrequent that it was often sev- 
eral minutes between shots. All the bullets, 
whether British or American, passed high over 
my head, for which I was truly glad. 

I made very good progress toward our lines, 
until I heard ahead of me a slight noise as of 


MY GUIDE. 


127 


some one moving about. I presumed that it 
was one of our sharpshooters, and was about to 
call gently, telling him who I was. I was right 
in my presumption, but not quick enough with 
my hail, for his rifle was fired so close to me 
that the blaze of the exploding powder seemed 
to leap at me. That the bullet in truth was 
aimed at me there was no doubt, for I felt its 
passage so near my face that it made me turn 
quite cold and shiver. 

“ Hold! I am a friend! ” I shouted. 

“ Shoot the damned British spy! Don’t let 
him get away! ” cried the sharpshooter. 

Two or three other sharpshooters, taking 
him at his word, fired at my figure faintly seen 
in the darkness. None hit me, but I was seized 
with a sudden and great feeling of discomfort. 
Seeing that it was not a time for explanations, 
I turned and ran back in the other direction. 
One more shot was fired at me as I ran, and I 
was truly thankful that I was a swift runner 
and a poor target. 

In a few moments I was beyond the line of 
their fire, and, rejoicing over my escape from 
present dangers, was meditating how to escape 
from those of the future, when a shot was fired 


128 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


from a new point of the compass, and some 
one cried out : 

“ Shoot him, the Yankee spy! the damned 
rebel! Don’t let him escape! ” 

And in good truth those to whom he spoke 
this violent command obeyed with most alarm- 
ing promptness, for several muskets were dis- 
charged instantly and the bullets flew about 
me. 

I turned back with surprising quickness and 
fled toward the American camp, more shots pur- 
suing me, but fortune again saving me from 
their sting. I could hear the Englishmen re- 
peating their cries to each other not to let the 
rebel spy escape. Then I bethought me it was 
time to stop, or in a moment or two I would 
hear the Americans shouting to each other not 
to let the infernal British spy escape. I recog- 
nized the very doubtful nature of my position. 
It seemed as if both the British and American 
armies, horse and foot, had quit their legitimate 
business of fighting each other and had gone 
to hunting me, a humble subaltern, who asked 
nothing of either just then but personal safety. 
Was I to dance back and forth between them 
forever? 


MY GUIDE. 


I29 


Some lightning thoughts passed through my 
mind, but none offered a solution of my prob- 
lem. Chance was kinder. I stumbled on a 
stone, and flat I fell in a little gully. There I 
concluded to stay for the while. I pressed very 
close against the earth and listened to a rapid 
discharge of rifles and muskets. Then I per- 
ceived that I had revenge upon them both, for 
in their mutual chase of me the British and 
American skirmishers had come much closer 
together, and were now engaged in their proper 
vocation of shooting at each other instead of 
at me. 

I, the unhappy cause of it all, lay quite still, 
and showered thanks upon that kindly little 
gully for getting in my way and receiving my 
falling body at such an opportune moment. 
The bullets were flying very fast over my head, 
but unless some fool shot at the earth instead of 
at a man I was safe. The thought that there 
might be some such fool made me shiver. Had I 
possessed the power, I would have burrowed my 
way through the earth to the other side, which 
they say is China. 

It was the battle of Blenheim, at least, that 
seemed to be waged at the back of my head, 


130 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


for my nose was pressed into the earth and my 
imagination lent much aid to facts. I seemed 
to cower there for hours, and then one side 
began to retreat. It was the British, the Ameri- 
cans, I suppose, being in stronger force and 
also more skillful at this kind of warfare. The 
diminishing fire swept back toward the British 
lines and then died out like a languid blaze. 

I heard the tramp of feet, and a heavy man 
with a large foot stepped squarely upon my 
back. 

“ Hello! ” said the owner. “ Here’s one, at 
least, that we’ve brought down! ” 

“ English, or Hessian? ” asked another. 

“ Can’t tell,” said the first. “ He’s lying on 
his face, and, besides, he’s half buried in a gully. 
We’ll let him stay here; I guess this gully will 
do for his grave.” 

“ No, it won’t, Whitest one! ” said I, sitting 
up. “ When the ri-ght time comes for me to 
be buried I want a grave deeper than this.” 

“Good Lord! is it you, Mr. Shelby?” ex- 
claimed Whitestone, in surprise and genuine 
gladness. 

“ Yes, it is I,” I replied, “ and in pretty 
sound condition too, when you consider the 


MY GUIDE. 


131 

fact that all the British and American soldiers 
in the province of New York have been firing 
point-blank at me for the last two hours.” 

Then I described my tribulations, and 
Whitestone, saying I should deem myself lucky 
to have fared so well, went with me to our 


camp. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

Dangers and troubles past have never pre- 
vented me from sleeping well, and when I awoke 
the next morning it was with Whitestone pull- 
ing at my shoulder. 

“ This is the third shake,” said he. 

“ But the last,” said I, getting up and rub- 
bing my eyes. 

I have seldom seen a finer morning. The 
fresh crispness of early October ran through the 
brilliant sunshine. The earth was bathed in 
light. It was such a sun as I have heard rose 
on the morning of the great battle of Auster- 
litz, fought but recently. A light wind blew 
from the west. The blood bubbled in my veins. 

“ It’s lucky that so many of us should have 
such a fine day for leaving the world,” said 
Whitestone. 

The battle, the -final struggle for which we 
132 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


133 


had been looking so long, was at hand. I had 
not mistaken the preparations in the British 
camp the night before. 

I have had my share, more or less humble, in 
various campaigns and combats, but I have 
not seen any other battle begun with so much 
deliberation as on that morning. In truth all 
whom I could see appeared to be calm. A man 
is sometimes very brave and sometimes much 
afraid — I do not know why — but that day the 
braver part of me was master. 

We were ready and waiting to see what the 
British would do, when Burgoyne, with his 
picked veterans, came out of his intrenchments 
and challenged us to battle, much as the knights 
of the old time used to invite one another to 
combat. 

They were not so many as we — we have 
never made that claim; but they made a most 
gallant show, all armed in the noble style with 
which Britain equips her troops, particularly the 
bayonets, of which we have had but few in the 
best of times, and none, most often. 

They sat down in close rank on the hillside, 
as if they were quite content with what we 
might do or try to do, whatever it might be. 


34 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


I have heard many say it was this vaunting over 
us that chiefly caused the war. 

The meaning of the British was evident to 
us all. If this picked force could hold its own 
against our attack, the remainder of their army 
would be brought up and an attempt to inflict 
a crushing defeat upon us would be made; if 
it could not hold its own, it would retreat into 
the intrenchments, where the whole British 
army would defend itself at vantage. 

Farther back in the breastworks I could see 
the British gazing out at their chosen force and 
at us. I even imagined that I could see women 
looking over, and that perhaps Kate Van Au- 
ken was one of them. I say again, how like it 
was in preparation and manner to one of the 
old tournaments! Perhaps it was but my fancy. 

There was no movement in our lines. So 
far as we could judge just then, we were mere- 
ly looking on, as if it were no affair of ours. In 
the British force some one played a tune on a 
fife which sounded to me like “ Won’t you 
dare? ” 

“ Why did we take so much care to hem 
them in and then refuse to fight them? ” asked 
I impatiently of Whitestone. 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


135 

“ What time o’ day is it?” asked White- 
stone. 

“ I don’t know,” I replied, “ but it’s early.” 

“ I never answer such questions before sun- 
down,” said Whitestone. 

Content with his impolite but wise reply, 
I asked no more, noticing at times the red 
squares of the British, and at other times the 
dazzling circle of the red sun. 

Suddenly the British began to move. They 
came on in most steady manner, their fine order 
maintained. 

“Good!” said Whitestone. “They mean 
to turn our left.” 

We were on the left, which might be good 
or bad. Be that as it may, I perceived that our 
waiting was over. I do not think we felt any 
apprehension. We were in strong force, and we 
New Yorkers were on the left, and beside us 
our brethren of New England, very strenuous 
men. We did not fear the British bayonet 
of which our enemies boast so much. While 
we watched their advance, I said to White- 
stone: 

“ I will not ask that question again before 
sundown.” 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


136 

“ I trust that you will be able to ask it then, 
and I to answer it,” replied he. 

Which was about as solemn as Whitestone 
ever became. 

Looking steadily at the British, I saw a man 
in their front rank fall. Almost at the same 
time I heard the report of a ride just in front 
of us, and I knew that one of our sharpshooters 
had opened the battle. 

This shot was like a signal. The sharp 
crackling sound ran along the grass like fire in 
a forest, and more men fell in the British lines. 
Their own skirmishers replied, and while the 
smoke was yet but half risen a heavy jerky mo- 
tion seized our lines and we seemed to lift our- 
selves up. A thrill of varying emotions passed 
through me. I knew that we were going to 
attack the British, not await their charge. 

Our drummers began to beat a reply to 
theirs, but I paid small attention to them. The 
fierce pattering from the rifles of the skirmish- 
ers and the whistling of the bullets now coming 
about our ears were far more important sounds. 
But the garrulous drums beat on. 

“ Here goes! ” said Whitestone. 

The drums leaped into a faster tune, and we, 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


37 


keeping pace with the redoubled rub-a-dub, 
charged into a cloud of smoke spangled with 
fiaming spots. The smoke filled my eyes and I 
could not see, but I was borne on by my own 
will and the solid rush of the men beside me 
and behind me. Then my eyes cleared partly, 
and I saw a long red line in front of us. Those 
in the first rank were on one knee, and I re- 
member thinking how sharp their bayonets 
looked. The thought was cut short by a vol- 
ley and a blaze which seemed to envelop their 
whole line. A huge groan arose from our ranks. 
I missed the shoulder against my left shoulder 
— the man who had stood beside me was no 
longer there. 

We paused only for a moment to fire in 
our turn, and our groan found an equal echo 
among the British. Then, officers shouting com- 
mands and men shouting curses, we rushed 
upon the bayonets. 

I expected to be spitted through, and do not 
know why I was not; but in the turmoil of 
noise and flame and smoke I swept forward 
with all the rest. When we struck them I felt 
a mighty shock, as if I were the whole line 
instead of one man. Then came the joy of the 


38 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


savage when their line — bayonets and all — 
reeled back and shivered under tire crash of 
ours. 

I shouted madly, and struck through the 
smoke with my sword. I was conscious that I 
stepped on something softer than the earth, 
that it crunched beneath my feet; but I 
thought little of it. Instead I rushed on, 
hacking with my sword at the red blurs in the 
smoke. 

I do not say it as a boast, for there were 
more of us than of them — though they used to 
claim that they did not care for numbers — but 
they could place small check upon our ad- 
vance, although they had cannon as well as bayo- 
nets. Their red line, very much seamed and 
scarred now, was driven back, and still farther 
back, up the hill. Our men, long anxious for this 
battle and sure of triumph, poured after them 
like a rising torrent. The British were not 
strong enough, and were swept steadily toward 
their intrenchments. 

“ Do you hear that? ” shouted some one in 
my ear. 

“Hear what?” I shouted in reply, turn- 
ing to Whitestone. 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


139 


“ The cannon and the rifles across yonder,” 
he said, nodding his head. 

Then I noticed the angry crash of artillery 
and small arms to our left, and I knew by the 
sound that not we alone but the whole battle 
front of both armies was engaged. 

If the British, as it seemed, wanted a decisive 
test of strength, they would certainly get it. 

For a few moments the smoke rolled over us 
in such volume that I could not see Whitestone, 
who was but three feet from me, but I perceived 
that we had wheeled a little, and nobody was 
before us. Then the smoke drifted aside, and 
our men uttered a most tremendous shout, for 
all the British who were alive or could walk had 
been driven into their intrenchments, and, so 
far as that, we were going to carry their in- 
trenchments too, or try. 

I think that all of us took a very long breath, 
for I still had the strange feeling that our 
whole line was one single living thing, and 
whatever happened to it I felt. The cannon 
from the intrenchments were fired straight into 
our faces, but our bloody line swept on. I 
leaped upon a ridge of newly thrown earth and 

struck at a tall cap*. I heard a tremendous 
10 


140 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


swearing, long volleys of deep German oaths. 
We were among the paid Hessians, whom we 
ever hated more than the British for coming 
to fight us in a quarrel that was none of theirs. 

The Hessians, even with their intrenchments 
and cannon, could not stand before us — nor do 
I think they are as good as we. Perhaps our 
hatred of these mercenaries swelled our zeal, 
but their intrenchments were no barrier to us. 
For a space we fought them hand to hand, knee 
to knee; then they gave way. I saw their slain 
commander fall. Some fled, some yielded; 
others fought on, retreating. 

I rushed forward and called upon a Hessian 
to surrender. For answer he stabbed straight 
at my throat with his bayonet. He would have 
surely hit the mark, but a man beside him 
knocked the bayonet away with his sword, call- 
ing out at the same moment to me. 

“ That’s part payment of my debt to you, 
Dick.” 

He was gone in the smoke, and as I was 
busy receiving the surrender of the Hessian and 
his bayonet I could not follow him. I looked 
around for more to do, but all the Hessians who 
had not fled had yielded, and the fight was ours. 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


14 


Burgoyne had not only failed in the pitched 
battle in the open field, but we had taken many 
of his cannon and a portion of his camp. His 
entire army, no longer able to face us in any sort 
of contest, lay exposed to our attack. 

I wondered why we did not rush on and 
finish it all then, but I noticed for the first time 
that the twilight had come and the skies were 
growing dark over the field of battle. I must 
have spoken my thoughts aloud, for White- 
stone, at my elbow, said : 

“ No use having more men killed, Mr. Shel- 
by; we’ve nothing to do now but hold fast to 
what we’ve got, and the rest will come to us.” 

Whitestone sometimes spoke to me in a 
fatherly manner, though I was his superior. But 
I forgave him. I owed much to him. 

The battle ceased as suddenly as it had be- 
gun. The long shadows of the night seemed 
to cover everything and bring peace, though 
the cries of the wounded reminded us of what 
had been done. We gathered up the hurt, re- 
lieving all we could; but later in the night the 
sharpshooters began again. 

I was exultant over our victory and the 
certainty of a still greater triumph to come. I 


142 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


rejoiced that Albert had not forgotten his debt 
to me and had found a way of repayment, but 
I felt anxiety also. In the rush of the battle, 
with the bullets flying one knew not whither, 
not even the women and children lying in that 
portion of the British camp yet intact were safe. 

The wounded removed, I had nothing more 
to do but to wait. Only then did I remember 
to be thankful that I was unhurt. I had much 
smoke grime upon my face, and I dare say I 
was not fine to look at, but I thought little of 
those things. Whitestone, who also was free 
from active duty, joined me, and I was glad. 
He drew his long pipe from the interior of his 
waistcoat, filled it with tobacco, lighted it and 
became happy. 

“ It has been a good day’s work,” he said 
at length. 

“ Yes, for us,” I replied. “What will be 
the next step, Whitestone? ” 

“ The British will retreat soon,” he said. 
“ We will follow without pressing them too 
hard. No use to waste our men now. In 
a week the British will be ours.” 

Whitestone spoke with such assurance that 
I was convinced. 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE NIGHT AFTER. 

But a dull murmur arose from the two 
camps, victor and vanquished. Both seemed to 
sleep for the morrow. I had done so much 
guard duty of late that I looked for such assign- 
ment as a matter of course, and this night was 
no exception. With Whitestone and some sol- 
diers I was to guard one of the little passes 
between the hills. We were merely an alarm 
corps; we could not stop a passage, but there 
were enough behind us whom we could arouse 
for the purpose. The British might retreat far- 
ther into the interior, but the river and its 
banks must be closed to them. 

We stood in the dark, but we could see the 

wavering lights of either camp. The murmur 

as it came to us was very low. The two armies 

rested as if they were sunk in a lethargy after 

their strenuous efforts of the day. I did not re- 
143 


1 44 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


gret my watch. I did not care to sleep. The 
fever of the fight yet lingering in my blood. I 
was not so old to battle that I could lie down 
and find slumber as soon as the fighting ended. 

“ Mr. Shelby/’ said Whitestone, “ is there 
any rule or regulation against a pipe to- 
night?” 

“ I know of none, Whitestone,” I said. 

He was satisfied, and lighted his pipe, which 
increased his satisfaction. I strolled about a 
little, watching the lights and meditating upon 
the events of the day. The camps stood higher 
than I, and they looked like huge black clouds 
shot through here and there with bits of flame. 
I believed Whitestone’s assurance that Bur- 
goyne would retreat on the morrow; but I 
wondered what he would attempt after that.- 
Clinton’s arrival might save him, but it seemed 
to me that the possibility of such an event was 
fast lessening. In this fashion I passed an hour 
or two; then it occurred to me to approach 
the British camp a little more closely and see 
what movements there might be on the out- 
skirts, if any. Telling Whitestone of my in- 
tent, I advanced some forty or fifty yards. 
From that point, though still beyond rifle shot. 


THE NIGHT AFTER. 


145 

I could see figures in the British camp when 
they passed between me and the firelight. 

There was one light larger than the others — 
near the center of the camp it seemed to be — 
and figures passed and repassed in front of it 
like a procession. Presently I noticed that 
these shapes passed in fours, and they were 
carrying something. It seemed a curious thing, 
and I watched it a little; then I understood 
what they were doing: they were burying the 
dead. 

I could easily have crept nearer and fired 
some bullets into the British camp, but I had 
no such intent. That was the business of others, 
and even then I could hear the far-away shots 
of the sharpshooters. 

The sights of this stricken camp interested 
me. The ground was favorable for conceal- 
ment, and I crept nearer. Lying among some 
weeds I could obtain a good view. The figures 
before indistinct and shapeless now took form 
and outline. I could tell which were officers 
and which were soldiers. 

Some men were digging in the hillside. 
They soon ceased, and four others lifted a body 
from the grass and put it in the grave. A 


I4 6 THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

woman came forward and read from a little 
book. My heart thrilled when I recognized 
the straight figure and earnest face of Kate 
Van Auken. Yet there was no need for me 
to be surprised at the sight of her. It was like 
her to give help on such a night. 

I could not hear the words, but I knew 
they were a prayer, and I bowed my head. 
When she finished the prayer and they began 
to throw in the earth, she walked away and 
I lost sight of her; but I guessed that she 
went on to other and similar duties. I 
turned about to retreat, and stumbled over a 
body. 

A feeble voice bade me be more careful, and 
not run over a gentleman who was not bother- 
ing me but attending to his own business. A 
British officer, very pale and weak — I could see 
that even in the obscurity — sat up and looked 
reproachfully at me. 

“ Aren’t you rebels satisfied with beating 
us? ” he asked in a faint voice scarce above a 
whisper. “ Do you want to trample on us 
too? ” 

“ I beg your pardon,” I said. “ I did not see 
you.” 


THE NIGHT AFTER. 


147 

“ If any harm was done, your apology has re- 
moved it,” he replied most politely. 

I looked at him with interest. His voice 
was not the only weak thing about him. He 
seemed unable to sit up, but was in a half-re- 
clining position, with his shoulder propped 
against a stone. He was young. 

“ What’s the matter? ” I asked, sympathiz- 
ing much. 

“ I’m in the most embarrassing position of 
my life,” he replied, with a faint attempt at a 
laugh. “ One of your confounded rebel bul- 
lets has gone through both my thighs. I don’t 
think it has struck any bone, but I have lost 
so much blood that I can neither walk, nor can 
I cry out loud enough for my people to come 
and rescue me, nor for your people to come 
and capture me. I think the bleeding has 
stopped. The blood seems to have clogged it- 
self up.” 

I was bound to admit that he had truly de- 
scribed his position as embarrassing. 

“ What would you do if you were in my 
place? ” he asked. 

I didn’t know, and said so. Yet I had no 
mind to abandon him. The positions reversed, 


148 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


I would have a very cruel opinion of him were 
he to abandon me. He could not see my face, 
and he must have had some idea that I was 
going to desert him. 

“ You won’t leave me, will you? ” he asked 
anxiously. 

His tone appealed to me, and I assured him 
very warmly that I would either take him a 
prisoner into our camp or send him into his 
own. Then I sat my head to the task, for 
either way it was a problem. I doubted 
whether I could carry him to our camp, which 
was far off comparatively, as he looked like a 
heavy Briton. I certainly could carry him to 
his own camp, which was very near, but that 
would make it uncommonly embarrassing for 
me. I explained the difficulty to him. 

“ That’s so,” he said thoughtfully. “ I don’t 
want you to get yourself into trouble in order 
to get me out of it.” 

“ What’s your name? ” I asked. 

“ Hume. Ensign William Hume,” he re- 
plied. 

“ You’re too young to die, Hume,” I said, 
“ and I promise not to leave you until you are 
in safety.” 


THE NIGHT AFTER. 


149 


“ I'll do the same for you,” he said, “ if ever 
I find you lying on a hillside with a bullet 
hole through both your thighs.” 

I sat down on the grass beside him, and 
gave him something strong out of a little flask 
that I carried in an inside pocket. He drank 
it with eagerness and gratitude and grew 
cheerful. 

I thought a few moments, and my idea came 
to me, as good ideas sometimes do. As he 
could neither walk nor shout, it behooved me 
to do both for him. Telling him my plan, of 
which he approved most heartily, as he ought 
to have done, I lifted him in my arms and 
walked toward the British camp. He was a 
heavy load and my breath grew hard. 

We were almost within reach of the fire- 
light, and yet we were not noticed by any of 
the British, who, I suppose, were absorbed in 
their preparations. We came to a newly cut 
tree, intended probably for use in the British 
fortifications. I put Ensign Hume upon this 
tree with his back supported against an up- 
thrust bough. 

“Now, don’t forget, when they come,” I said. 
“ to tell them you managed to crawl to this tree 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


150 

and shout for help. That will prevent any pur- 
suit of me/’ 

He promised, and shook hands with as 
strong a grip as he could, for he was yet weak. 
Then I stepped back a few paces behind him, 
and shouted: 

“Help, help, comrades! Help! help!” 

Figures advanced from the firelight, and I 
glided away without noise. From my covert 
in the darkness I could see them lift Hume 
from the tree and carry him into his own camp. 
Then I went farther away, feeling glad. 

It was my intent to rejoin Whitest one and 
the soldiers, and in truth I went back part of 
the way, but the British camp had a great at- 
traction for me. I was curious to see, as far as 
I could, what might be going on in its out- 
skirts. I also encouraged myself with the 
thought that I might acquire information of 
value. 

Thus gazing about with no certain purpose, 
I saw a figure coming toward me. One of our 
sharpshooters or spies returning from explora- 
tions, was my first thought. But this thought 
quickly yielded to another, in which wonder- 
ment was mingled to a marked extent. That 


THE NIGHT AFTER. 


151 

figure was familiar. I had seen that swing, that 
manner, before. 

My wonderment increased, and I decided to 
observe closely. I stepped farther aside that I 
might not be seen, of which, however, there was 
but small chance, so long as I sought conceal- 
ment. 

The figure veered a little from me, choosing 
a course where the night lay thickest. I was 
unable to make up my mind about it. Once 
I had taken another figure that looked like it 
for Albert, and once I had taken it for Albert’s 
sister, and each time I had been wrong. Now 
I had my choice, and also the results of experi- 
ence, and remained perplexed. 

I resolved to follow. There might be mis- 
chief afoot. Albert was quite capable of it, if 
Albert’s sister was not. The figure proceeded 
toward our post, where I had left Whitestone 
in command for the time being. I fell in be- 
hind, preserving a convenient distance be- 
tween us. 

Ahead of us I saw a spark of fire, tiny but 
distinct. I knew very well that it was the light 
of Whitestone’s pipe. I expected the figure 
that I was following to turn aside, but it did 


52 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


not. Instead, after a moment’s pause, as if 
for examination, it went straight on to- 
ward the spark of light. I continued to fol- 
low. Whitestone was alone. The soldiers 
were not visible. I suppose they were farther 
back. 

The gallant sergeant raised his rifle at sight 
of the approaching figure, but dropped it 
when he perceived that nothing hostile was in- 
tended. 

“ Good evening, Miss Van Auken,” he said 
most politely. “ Have you come to surren- 
der? ” 

“ No,” replied Kate, “ but to make inqui- 
ries, sergeant, if you would be so kind as to an- 
swer them.” 

“ If it’s not against my duty,” replied White- 
stone, with no abatement of his courtesy. 

“ I wanted to know if all my friends had es- 
caped unhurt from the battle,” she said. “ I 
was going to ask about you first, sergeant, but 
I see that it is not necessary.” 

“ What others? ” said the sergeant. 

“ Well, there’s Mr. Shelby,” she said. “ Al- 
bert said he saw him in that fearful charge, the 
tumult of which frightened us so much.” 


THE NIGHT AFTER. 


153 


“ Oh, Mr. Shelby’s all right, ma’am,” replied 
the sergeant. “ The fact is, he’s in command 
of this very post, and he’s scouting about here 
somewhere now. Any others, ma’am, you wish 
to ask about? ” 

“ I don’t recall any just now,” she said, “ and 
I suppose I ought to go back, or you might 
be compelled to arrest me as a spy, or some- 
thing of that kind.” 

The sergeant made another deep bow. 
Whitestone always thought he had fine man- 
ners. Kate began her return. She did not see 
me, for I had stepped aside. But I was very 
glad that I had seen her. I watched her until 
she re-entered the British camp. 

When I rejoined Whitestone he assured me 
that nothing whatever had happened in my ab- 
sence, and, besides the men of our immediate 
command, he had not seen a soul of either 
army. I did not dispute his word, for I was 
satisfied. 

All night long the bustle continued in Bur- 
goyne’s camp, and there was no doubt of its 
meaning. Burgoyne would retreat on the mor- 
row, in a desperate attempt to gain time, hop- 
ing always that Clinton would come. The next 


154 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


day this certainty was fulfilled. The British 
army drew off, and we followed in overwhelming 
force, content, so our generals seemed, to wait 
for the prize without shedding blood in another 
pitched battle. 


CHAPTER XII. 


WE RIDE SOUTHWARD. 

But it is not sufficient merely to win a 
battle. One must do more, especially when 
another hostile army is approaching and one 
does not know how near that army is, or how 
much nearer it will be. 

It was such a trouble as this that afflicted 
our generals after the morning of the great 
victory. That other British army down the 
river bothered them. They wanted exact in- 
formation about Clinton, and my colonel sent 
for me. 

“ Mr. Shelby,” he said, “ take the best horse 
you can find in the regiment, ride with all 
haste to Albany, and farther south, if necessary, 
find out all you can about Clinton, and gallop 
back to us with the news. It is an important 
and perhaps a dangerous duty, but I think you 

are a good man for it, and if you succeed, those 
n 155 


156 THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

much higher in rank than I am will thank 
you.” 

I felt flattered, but I did not allow myself 
to be overwhelmed. 

“ Colonel,” I said, “ let me take Sergeant 
Whitestone with me; then, if one of us should 
fall, the other can complete the errand.” 

But I did not have the possible fall of either 
of us in mind. Whitestone and I understand 
each other, and he is good company. More- 
over, the sergeant is a handy man to have 
about in an emergency. 

The colonel consented promptly. 

“ It is a good idea,” he said. “ I should have 
thought of it myself.” 

But then colonels don’t always think of 
everything. 

Whitestone was very willing. 

“ I don’t think anything will happen here 
before we get back,” he said, looking off in the 
direction of Burgoyne’s army. 

In a half hour, good horses under us, we 
were galloping southward. We expected to 
reach Albany in four hours. 

For a half hour we rode along, chiefly in 
silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. 


WE RIDE SOUTHWARD. 


5 ; 


Then I saw Whitestone fumbling in the inside 
pocket of his waistcoat, and I knew that the 
pipe was coming. He performed the feat of 
lighting it and smoking it without diminish- 
ing speed, and looked at me triumphantly. I 
said nothing, knowing that no reply was needed. 

My thoughts — and it was no trespass upon 
my soldierhood — were elsewhere. I hold that I 
am not a sentimental fellow, but in the ride to 
Albany I often saw the face of Kate Van Auken 
— Mrs. Captain Chudleigh that was to be — a girl 
who was nothing to me, of course. Yet I was 
glad that she was not a Tory and traitor, and 
I hoped Chudleigh would prove to be the right 
sort of man. 

“ I’ll be bound you’re thinking of some girl,” 
said Whitestone suddenly, as he took his pipe 
from his mouth and held the stem judicially 
between his thumb and forefinger. 

“ Why? ” I asked. 

“ You look up at the sky, and not ahead of 
you; you sigh, and you’re young,” replied 
Whitestone. 

But I swore that I was not thinking of any 
girl, and with all the more emphasis because 
I was. Whitestone was considerate, however, 


58 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


and said nothing more on the subject. Within 
the time set for ourselves we reached Albany. 

Albany, as all the world knows, is an im- 
portant town of Dutchmen. It is built on top 
of a hill, down a steep hillside, and then into 
a bottom by the river, which sometimes rises 
without an invitation from the Dutchmen and 
washes out the houses in the bottom. I have 
heard that many of these Dutchmen are not 
real Dutchmen, but have more English blood 
in them. It is not a matter, however, that I 
care to argue, as it is no business of mine what 
hobby horse one may choose to ride hard. All 
I know is that these Albany Dutchmen are wide 
of girth and can fight well, which is sufficient 
for the times. 

Whitestone and I rode along looking at the 
queer houses with their gable ends to the street. 
We could see that the town was in a great 
flurry, as it had a good right to be, with our 
army and Burgoyne’s above it and Clinton’s 
below it, and nobody knowing what was about 
to happen. 

“ We must gather up the gossip of the town 
first,” I said to Whitestone. “ No doubt much 
of it will be false and more of it exaggerated, 


WE RIDE SOUTHWARD. 


*59 

but it will serve as an indication and tell us how 
to set about our work.” 

“ Then here’s the place for us to begin gath- 
ering,” said Whitestone, pointing to a low frame 
building through the open door of which many 
voices and some strong odors of liquor came. 
Evidently it was a drinking tavern, and I knew 
Whitestone was right when he said it was a 
good place in which to collect rumors. 

We dismounted, hitched our horses to posts, 
and entered. As plenty of American soldiers 
were about the town, we had no fear that our 
uniforms would attract special attention. In 
truth we saw several uniforms like ours in the 
room, which was well crowded with an assem- 
blage most mixed and noisy. Whitestone and I 
each ordered a glass of the Albany whisky tem- 
pered with water, and found it to be not bad 
after a long and weary ride. I have observed 
that a good toddy cuts the dust out of one’s 
throat in excellent fashion. Feeling better 
we stood around with the others and listened 
to the talk, of which there was no lack. In 
truth, some of it was very strange and remark- 
able. 

The news of our great battle had reached 


l6 0 THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

the Albany people, but in a vague and contrary 
fashion, and we found that we had beaten Bur- 
goyne; that Burgoyne had beaten us; that Bur- 
goyne was fleeing with all speed toward Can- 
ada; that he would be in Albany before night. 
Those who know always feel so superior to 
those who don’t know that Whitestone and I 
were in a state of great satisfaction. 

But the conversation soon turned from Bur- 
goyne to 'Clinton, and then Whitestone and I 
grew eager. Our eagerness turned to alarm, 
for we heard that Clinton, with a great fleet 
and a great army, was pressing toward Albany 
with all haste. 

Good cause for alarm was this, and, how- 
ever much it might be exaggerated, we had 
no doubt that the gist of it was the truth. 

I made a sign to Whitestone, and we slipped 
quietly out of the tavern, not wishing to draw 
any notice to ourselves. Despite our caution, 
two men followed us outside. I had observed 
one of these men looking at me in the tavern, 
but he had turned his eyes away when mine 
met his. Outside he came up to me and said 
boldly, though in a low voice: 

“ Have you come from the south? ” 


WE RIDE SOUTHWARD. j6i 

“No,” I said carelessly, thinking to turn 
him off. 

“ Then you have come from the north, from 
the battlefield,” he said in a tone of convic- 
tion. 

“ What makes you think so? ” I asked, an- 
noyed. 

“ You and your companion are covered with 
dust and your horses with perspiration,” he re- 
plied, “ and you have ridden far and hard.” 

I could not guess the man’s purpose, but 
I took him and the others with him to be 
Tories, spies of the British, who must be numer- 
ous about Albany. I do not like to confess it, 
but it is true that in our province of New York 
the Tories were about as many as, perhaps more 
than, the patriots. We might denounce the 
men, but we had no proof at all against them. 
Moreover, we could not afford to get into a 
wrangle on such a mission as ours. 

“You were at the battle,” said the man 
shrewdly, “ and you have come in all haste 
to Albany.” 

“ Well, what if we were? ” I said in some 
heat. His interference and impertinence were 
enough to make me angry. 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


162 


“ But I did not say from which army you 
came,” he said, assuming an air of great acute- 
ness and knowledge. 

I was in doubt. Did the man take us for 
Tory spies — I grew angrier still at the thought 
— or was he merely trying to draw us on to the 
telling of what he knew? While I hesitated, 
he added: 

“ I know that Burgoyne held his own in a 
severe battle fought yesterday. That is no news 
to you. But if you go about the town a little, 
you will also know what I know, that Clinton, 
in overwhelming force, will soon be at Albany.” 

I was convinced now that the man was try- 
ing to draw from me the facts about the bat- 
tle, and I believed more than ever that he and 
his comrades were Tory spies. I regretted that 
Whitestone and I had not removed the dust 
of travel before we entered the tavern. I re- 
gretted also that so many of our countrymen 
should prove faithless to us. It would have 
been far easier Tor us had we only the British 
and the hired Hessians to fight. 

Whitestone was leaning against his horse, 
bridle in hand, looking at the solitary cloud that 
the sky contained. Apparently the sergeant 


WE RIDE SOUTHWARD. 


1 63 


was off in dreams, but I knew he was listening 
intently. He let his eyes fall, and when they 
met mine, he said, very simply and carelessly: 

“ I think weM better go.” 

As I said, the sergeant is a very handy man 
to have about in an emergency. His solution 
was the simplest in the world — merely to ride 
away from the men and leave them. 

We mounted our horses. 

“ Good day, gentlemen,” we said. 

“ Good day,” they replied. 

Then we left them, and when I looked back, 
at our first turning, they were still standing at 
the door of the tavern. But I gave them little 
further thought, for Clinton and his advancing 
fleet and army must now receive the whole at- 
tention of the sergeant and myself. 

It was obvious that we must leave Albany, 
go down the river, and get exact news about 
the British. It was easy enough for us to pass 
out of the town and continue our journey. We 
had been provided with the proper papers in 
case of trouble. 

We had given our horses rest and food in 
Albany, and rode at a good pace for an hour. 
Not far away we could see the Hudson, a great 


164 THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

ribbon of silver or gray, as sunshine or cloud 
fell upon it. I was occupied with the beauty 
of the scene, when Whitestone called my atten- 
tion and pointed ahead. Fifty yards away, and 
in the middle of the road, stood two horse- 
men motionless. They seemed to be planted 
there as guards, yet they wore no uniforms. 

I felt some anxiety, but reflected that the 
horsemen must be countrymen waiting, through 
curiosity or friendship, for approaching travelers 
in such troublous times. But as we rode nearer 
I saw that I was mistaken. 

“ Our inquiring friends of the tavern,” said 
Whitestone. 

He spoke the truth. I recognized them 
readily. When we were within fifteen feet they 
drew their horses across the way, blocking it. 

“ What does this mean, gentlemen? Why 
do you stop us? ” I asked. 

“We are an American patrol,” replied the 
foremost of the two, the one who had ques- 
tioned me at the tavern, “ and we can not let 
anybody pass here. It is against our orders.” 

Both wore ragged Continental coats, which 
I suppose they had brought out of some recess 
before they started on the circuit ahead of us. 


we ride Southward. 


i6 5 

I signed to Whitestone to keep silent, and 
rode up close to the leader. 

“We ought to understand each other,” I 
said, speaking in a confident and confidential 
tone. 

“ What do you mean? ” he asked suspi- 
ciously. 

I burst out laughing, as if I were enjoying 
the best joke in the world. 

“ I hate rebels,” I said, leaning over and tap- 
ping him familiarly on the shoulder with my 
finger. 

“ I don’t understand you,” he said. 

“ I mean that you hate rebels too,” I re- 
plied, “ and that you are just as much of a rebel 
as.I am.” 

“ Hi should think so! Hi could tell by the 
look hof their countenances that they are hof 
the right sort,” broke in Whitestone, drop- 
ping every h where it belonged and putting on 
every one where it did not belong. 

It was Whitestone’s first and last appear- 
ance on any occasion as an Englishman, but it 
was most successful. 

A look of intelligence appeared on the faces 
of the two men. 


THE SUN OF 'SARATOGA. 


1 66 


“ Of Bayle’s regiment in Burgoyne’s army, 
both of us,” I said. 

“ I thought it, back yonder in Albany,” said 
the leader, “ but why did you fence us off so? ” 

“ One doesn’t always know his friends, first 
glance, especially in rebel towns,” I said. " Like 
you, I thought so, but I couldn’t take the risk 
and declare myself until I knew more about 
you.” 

“ That’s true,” he acknowledged. “ These 
rebels are so cursedly sly.” 

“ Very, very sly,” I said, “ but we’ve fooled 
’em this time.” 

I pointed to their Continental coats and to 
ours. Then we laughed all together. 

“ Tell me what really happened up there,” 
said the man. 

“ It was a great battle,” I said, “ but we 
drove them off the field, and we can take care 
of ourselves. Six thousand British and German 
veterans care little for all the raw militia this 
country can raise.” 

“ That’s so,” he said. We laughed again, 
all together. 

“ How is everything down there? ” I asked, 
nodding my head toward the south. 


WE RIDE SOUTHWARD. 


67 


“ Clinton’s coming with a strong fleet and 
five thousand men,” he replied. “ What they 
say in the town is all true.” 

“ Small thanks he will get from Burgoyne,” 
I said. “ Our general will like it but little 
when Clinton comes to strip him of part of his 
glory.” 

“ I suppose you are right,” he answered, 
“ but I did not think Burgoyne was* finding his 
way so easy. I understood that the first battle 
at Saratoga stopped him.” 

“ Don’t you trouble yourself about Bur- 
goyne,” I said. “ If he stopped, he stopped for 
ample reasons.” 

Which was no lie. 

“ But we must hasten,” I continued. “ Our 
messages to Clinton will bear no delay.” 

“ Luck with you,” they said. 

“ Luck with you,” we replied, waving our 
hands in friendly salute as we rode away, still 
to the south. 

Whether they ever found out the truth I do 
not know, for I never saw or heard of either 
again. 

We continued our journey in silence for 
some time. Whitestone looked melancholy. 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


1 68 


“ What is the matter? ” I asked. 

“ It was too easy,” he replied. “ I always 
pity fools.” 

He lighted his pipe and sought consola- 
tion. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


WE MEET THE FLEET. 

The night soon came and was very dark. 
We were compelled to stop for rest and for food, 
which we found at a farmer’s house. But we 
were satisfied with our day’s work. We had 
started, and with the appearance of fact too, 
the report that Burgoyne had beaten us in 
pitched battle. We knew the report would be 
carried far and wide, and Clinton would think 
haste was not needed. Let me repeat that to 
win a battle is not to win a campaign, and I 
hold no general’s commission either. 

In the morning we met a few countrymen 
in a state of much fright. “ Clinton is com- 
ing! ” was all that we could get from them. We 
thought it more than likely that Clinton was 
coming in truth, since all the reports said he 
and his ships ought to be very near now. 

“ The river is the place to look,” said White- 
stone. 


169 


70 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


We turned our horses that way, and in a 
few minutes stood upon its high banks. 

“ See,” said Whitestone, pointing a long 
arm and an outstretched finger. 

I saw, and I saw, moreover, that our search 
was ended. Far down the river was the British 
fleet, a line of white specks upon the silver 
bosom of the water. We could scarce trace 
hull or sail or mast, but ships they were with- 
out mistake, and British ships they must be, 
since we had none. It was not a pleasant sight 
for us, but it would have rejoiced the heart 
of Burgoyne had he been there to see. 

We knew that Clinton must have several 
thousand men either on board the fleet or not 
far below, and we knew also that with such a 
strong force nothing could prevent his speedy 
arrival at Albany if he chose to hasten. I knew 
not what to do. Ought we to go back at once 
to our army with the news of what we had seen, 
or ought we to stay and find out more? On one 
side was time saved, and on the other better 
information. I put it to Whitestone, but he 
was as uncertain as I. 

Meanwhile the fleet grew under the hori- 
zon of the river. We could trace masts and 


WE MEET THE FLEET. 


i;i 

spars, and see the sails as they filled out with the 
wind. The little black figures on the decks were 
men. 

. A quarter of a mile or more below us we saw 

•a rocky projection into the river. I proposed to 
Whitestone that we ride at least that far and 
decide afterward on further action. 

We rode rapidly, but before we were half- 
way to the place we met men running — fright- 
ened men at that. Their condition of mind 
showed plainly on their faces. They wore militia 
uniforms, and we knew them to be some of our 
citizen soldiery, who are sometimes a very 
speedy lot, not being trained to the military 
business. We tried to stop them and find out 
why they were running and whence they came; 
but all we could get out of them was, “ The 
British are coming, with' a hundred ships and 
forty thousand men! ” At last, half by persua- 
sion and half by force, we induced one man to 
halt; he explained that he had been sent 
with the others to man a battery of four guns 
on the point. When they saw the British fleet 
coming, some of the raw militia had taken 
fright and fled, carrying the others with 
them. 


12 


\J2 THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

“ But the ships may not be here for an 
hour,” I protested. 

“ So much the better,” he said, “ for it gives 
us the more time.” 

We released him, and he followed his flying 
comrades. Whitestone and I looked ruefully 
after them, but I suggested that we continue 
our ride to the point. Even with the ships 
abreast us in the river, it would be easy for us 
to ride away and escape the British. We rode 
as rapidly as the ground would allow, and soon 
reached the point and the deserted battery. 

I could have sworn with vexation at the 
flight of our militia. It was a pretty battery, 
well planted, four trim eighteen pounders, 
plenty of powder, shot neatly piled, and a flag 
still flying from a tall pole. Whoever selected 
the place for the battery knew his business — 
which does not always happen in the military 
life. I looked again in the direction of the 
fleeing militia, but the back of the last man had 
disappeared. 

“ What a pity! ” I said regretfully to White- 
stone. “ At least they might have trimmed the 
rigging a little for those British ships down 
yonder.” 


WE MEET THE FLEET. 


173 

“ I don’t understand one thing,” said White- 
stone. 

“ What is it? ” I asked. 

He took his pipe from his mouth and tapped 
the bowl of it significantly with the index finger 
of his left hand. 

“ I can smoke that pipe, can’t I? ” he asked. 

“ I should think so! ” 

“ So could you if you had a chance, couldn’t 
you? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Those men who ran away could fire a can- 
non; so could ” 

“ Do you mean it, Whitestone? ” I asked, 
the blood flying to my head at the thought. 

“ Mean it? I should think I did,” he re- 
plied. “ I used to be in the artillery, and I can 
handle a cannon pretty well. So can you, I 
think. Here are the cannon, there’s ammuni- 
tion a-plenty, and over us flies the brand-new 
flag. What more do you want?” 

He replaced his pipe in his mouth, sat down 
on the breech of a gun, and gave himself up to 
content. I looked at him in admiration. I ap- 
prove of so many of Whitestone’s ideas, and 
I liked few better than this. I was young. 


174 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ Good enough, Whitestone,” I said. “ I, as 
commander, indorse the suggestion of my chief 
assistant.” 

We took our horses out of the range of the 
guns on the ships and fastened them securely, 
as we were thinking of our future needs. Then 
we came back to our battery. Evidently the 
original defenders had desired the battery to 
appear very formidable, for in addition to their 
real guns they had planted eight Quaker guns, 
which, seen from the center of the river, would 
look very threatening, I had no doubt. The 
four guns, genuine and true, were charged al- 
most to the muzzle. 

“ I think they have seen us,” said White- 
stone, pointing to the ships. 

It was a strong fleet — frigates and sloops. 
It was plain that they had seen us and had not 
been expecting us, for the ships were taking 
in sail and hovering about in an uncertain way. 
Officers in gilt and gold stood on their decks 
watching us through glasses. 

“ Keep down, Whitestone,” I said. “ We 
must not give them any hint as to the size of 
our force.” 

“ But I think we ought to give ’em a hint 


WE MEET THE FLEET. 


175 


that we’re loaded for bear,” said Whitestone. 
“ What do you say to a shot at the nearest 
frigate, Mr. Shelby. I think she is within long 
range.” 

I approved, and Whitestone fired. In the 
stillness of a country morning the report was 
frightfully distinct, and the echo doubling upon 
and repeating itself seemed to travel both up 
and down the river. The shot was well aimed. 
It smashed right into the frigate, and there 
was confusion on her decks. I fired the second 
gun, and down came some spars and rigging 
on the same ship. Whitestone rubbed his hands 
in glee. I shouted to him to lie close, and 
obeyed my own command as promptly as he. 
The frigate was about to return our salute. 

She swung around and let us have a broad- 
side, which did great damage to the rocks and 
the shore. But Whitestone and I remained 
cozy and safe. A large sloop came up closer 
than the frigate and fired a volley, which sailed 
peacefully over our heads and made a prodi- 
gious disturbance among the trees beyond us. 

“ Can you get at that third gun, White- 
stone? ” 

“ Nothing~easier! ” 


i/6 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ Then give that spiteful sloop a shot. 
Teach her it isn’t safe for a sloop to come 
where a frigate can’t stay.” 

Whitestone obeyed, and his shot was most 
glorious. The chunk of lead struck the sloop 
between wind and water and must have gone 
right through her, for presently she began to 
sheer off, the signs of distress visible all over 
her, as if she were taking in water at the rate of 
a thousand gallons a minute. I clapped White- 
stone on the back and shouted “ Hurrah! ” 

But our lucky shot had stirred up the full 
wrath of the fleet. The ships formed in line of 
battle and opened their batteries on us, firing 
sometimes one after the other, and sometimes 
nearly all together. I dare say the cliffs of the 
Hudson, in all their long existence, have never 
received such another furious bombardment. 
Oh, it was a bad day for the trees and the 
bushes and the rocks, which were beaten and 
battered and cut and crushed by eighteen-pound 
shot and twelve-pound shot and six-pound 
shot, and the Lord knows what, until the river 
itself fell into a rage and began to lash its waters 
into a turmoil! 

But Whitestone and I, with all this infernal 


WE MEET THE FLEET. 


1 77 


uproar around us, lay in our brave earthworks 
as snug- and cozy as chipmunks, and laughed 
to think that we were the cause of it all. I 
rolled over to Whitestone and shouted in his 
ear: 

“ As soon as the eruption diminishes a little 
we will try a fourth shot at them! ” 

He grinned, and both of us embraced the 
earth for some minutes longer. Then the fire 
of the enemy began to abate. We took the 
first chance to peep out at them, but the vol- 
ume of smoke over the river was so great and so 
dense that we could see the ships but indis- 
tinctly. 

As for ourselves, we had suffered little. One 
of our guns was dismounted, but it was a 
Quaker, and no harm was done. The fire dying, 
the clouds of smoke began to float away and 
the ships were disclosed. Whitestone and I, 
peeping over our earthworks, beheld a scene of 
great animation and excitement. The British 
were working hard; there was no doubt of it. 
The bustle on the decks was tremendous. Offi- 
cers were shouting to men and to each other; 
men were reloading cannon and making every 
preparation to renew the bombardment when 


i;8 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


their officers might order it. One frigate had 
come too near, and was grounded slightly in 
shallowing water. Her crew were making gi- 
gantic efforts to get her off before our terrible 
battery could blow her to pieces. 

The captains were using their glasses to see 
what was left of us, and I could guess their 
chagrin when they beheld us looking as formi- 
dable and as whole as ever, barring the dis- 
mounted Quaker. Our escape from injury was 
not so^wonderful after all. We defenders were 
only two, and we made a very small target; 
while if the battery had been crowded with 
men the death rate would have been prodigi- 
ous. 

“ There goes the frigate!” I cried. “ They’ve 
got her off! Give her a good-by as she goes, 
Whitestone! ” 

He was lying next to the fourth gun, and he 
instantly sent a shot smashing into the ves- 
sel. ’ But the shot was like a veritable torch 
to a powder magazine, for the fleet attacked 
us again with every gun it could bring to bear. 
The first bombardment seemed to have aroused 
fresh spirit and energy for the second, and 
Whitestone and I, taking no chances with peeps, 


WE MEET THE FLEET. 


179 

thrust our fingers into our ears and our heads 
into the ground. 

But we could not keep out the heavy crash- 
crash of the volleys, blending now and then into 
a continuous roar, which the river and the 
horizon took up and repeated. King George 
must have had a pretty powder-and-shot bill to 
pay for that day’s work. 

The clouds of smoke gathered in a vast 
black canopy over river and ships, shore and 
battery. Under and through it appeared now 
and then the dark lines of spars and ropes, and 
always the blazing flash of many great guns. 
If the stony shores of the Hudson did not suffer 
most grievously, let it not be charged against 
the British, for they displayed a spirit and ener- 
gy, if not a marksmanship, worthy of their repu- 
tation. 

I rejoiced at the vigor of their fire. Its 
volume was so great, and they must be work- 
ing so hard, that they could not know the bat- 
tery was making no answer. 

By and by the cannoneers waxed weary of 
loading and firing, and the officers of giving 
orders. The crash of the great guns became 
more infrequent. The flash of the powder bore 


i8o 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


less resemblance to continuous lightning. The 
smoke began to drift away. Then the defenders 
of the battery rose up in their courage and 
strength, reloaded their guns, and opened fire 
on the fleet. 

I love to think that the British were sur- 
prised most unpleasantly. Their fire was wan- 
ing, but ours was not, it seemed to them. The 
mischievous little battery was still there, and 
they had neither reduced it nor passed it. It 
was mirth to us to think how easily they could 
pass us, and yet preferred to reduce us. 

“ By all that’s glorious,” exclaimed White- 
stone, “ they’re retreating! ” 

It was so. The ships were hauling off, 
whether to refit for another attack or to con- 
sult for future action we did not know. We 
gave them a few shots as they drew away, and 
presently they anchored out of range. Boats 
were launched, and men in gold-laced caps and 
coats were rowed to the largest frigate. 

“ The admiral has called a conference, I 
guess,” I said to Whitestone. 

He nodded, and we inspected our battery to 
see how it had stood the second bombardment. 
Two more Quaker guns were dismounted, but 


WE MEET THE FLEET. I g I 

one of them we were able to put again into fair- 
ly presentable condition. That done, we took 
some refreshment from our knapsacks, and 
awaited in calmness the next movement of our 
enemies. As it was, we flattered ourselves that 
we had made a gallant fight. 

We waited a half hour, and then a boat 
put out from the big frigate. Besides the 
oarsmen, it contained a richly dressed offi- 
cer and a white flag. They came directly to- 
ward us. 

“ A flag of truce and a conference,” I said. 
“ Shall we condescend, Whitestone? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” replied Whitestone. “ We 
ought to hear what they have to say.” 

“ Then you remain in command of the bat- 
tery,” I said, “ and I will meet the officer.” 

I scrambled down the high cliff to the 
water’s edge and awaited the boat, which I 
was determined should not come too near. 
When it came within speaking distance, I hailed 
the officer and ordered him to stop. 

“ I am Captain Middleton,” he called, “ and 
I am commissioned by our commander to speak 
to your commander.” 

“ General Arnold saw you coming,” I said, 


1 82 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ and sent me to meet you and hear what you 
have to say.” 

“General Arnold!” he exclaimed in sur- 
prise. 

“ Yes, General Arnold, the commander of 
our battery,” I replied. 

I mentioned General Arnold because of his 
great reputation then as a fighting general. 
And a fighting general he was, too; *1 will 
say it, traitor though he afterward proved 
to be. 

“ I thought General Arnold was with 
Gates,” said the officer. 

“ Oh, they quarreled,” I replied airily, which 
was the truth, “ and General Arnold, being re- 
lieved of his command up there, has come down 
here to fight this battery. You have seen for 
yourself that he knows how to do it.” 

“ It is true,” he said, “ your fire was very 
warm.” 

He looked up at the battery, but I would 
not let him come within fifty feet of the shore, 
and he could see nothing save the earthworks 
and some of the gun muzzles. 

“ It can be made warmer,” I said confident- 
ly, not boastingly. 


WE MEET THE FLEET. x 83 

" I have come to summon you to surrender,” 
he said. “ We will offer you good terms.” 

"Surrender!” I laughed in scorn. "Why, 
my dear captain, you have made no impression 
upon us yet, while we have scarred your ships 
a bit.” 

"That is a fact,” he said. "You have 
handled your eighteen-pounders well.” 

" Twenty-four pounders,” I corrected. 

" I did not know they were so heavy,” he 
said. " That accounts for the strength of your 
fire.” 

He seemed pleased at the discovery. It 
made an excuse for his side. 

" No doubt General Arnold can do some- 
thing with a battery of twelve twenty-four 
pounders,” he began. 

" Eighteen twenty-four pounders,” I cor- 
rected. " You can not see all the muzzles.” 

He looked very thoughtful. I knew that 
he was impressed by the exceeding strength of 
our battery. 

" But about the proposition to surrender,” 
he began. 

" I will not take such an offer to General 
Arnold,” I exclaimed indignantly. " In fact, I 


1 84 THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

have my instructions from him. He’ll sink 
every ship you have, or be blown to pieces him- 
self.” 

Captain Middleton, after this emphatic 
declaration, which I am sure I made in a most 
convincing manner, seemed to think further 
talk would be a waste, and gave the word to his 
oarsmen to pull back to his ship. 

“ Good day,” he said very courteously. 

“ Good day,” said I with equal courtesy. 
Then I climbed back up the cliff and re-enforced 
the garrison. I watched Middleton as he ap- 
proached the flagship. He mounted to the 
deck and the officers crowded around him. In 
a half hour the ships bore up again, formed line 
of battle, and opened upon us a third terrific 
bombardment, which we endured with the same 
calmness and success. When they grew tired 
we gave them a few shots, which did some exe- 
cution, and then, to our infinite delight, they 
slipped their cables and fell back down the river. 

“ When they find out what we really are 
they’ll come again to-morrow and blow us to 
splinters,” said Whitestone. 

“ Yes, but we’ll be far away from here then,” 
said I, “ and we may have held them back a 


WE MEET THE FLEET. jgjj 

day at least. Why, man, even an hour is worth 
much to our army up yonder! ” 

We were in a state of supreme satisfaction, 
also in a state of hurry. There was nothing 
more for us to do in the south, and it was our 
business to hasten northward with the news we 
had. I rejoiced greatly. I hoped that Clinton 
would continue to fiddle his time away below 
Albany, impressed by the risks he was taking, 
thanks to our brave battery. 

We found our horses nearly dead from fright, 
but a few kicks restored life, and we rode north- 
ward in all haste. At Albany we changed 
horses, evaded questions, and resumed our ride. 
In the night we reached our own camp, and as 
soon as we had reported sought the rest we 
needed so badly, and, I think, deserved so well. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


THE PURSUIT OF CHUDLEIGH. 

Having returned, I expected to share in the 
pursuit of Burgoyne, and wondered to what par- 
ticular duty I would be assigned. But a man 
never knows at seven o’clock what he will 
be doing at eight o’clock, and before eight 
o’clock had come I was called by the colonel 
of our regiment. 

“ Mr. Shelby,” he said, “ you have already 
shown yourself intelligent and vigilant on im- 
portant service.” 

I listened, feeling sure that I was going to 
have something very disagreeable to do. You 
can depend upon it when your superior begins 
with formal flattery. I had just finished one im- 
portant task, but the more you do the more 
people expect of you. 

“ One of our prisoners has escaped,” he said; 

“ a keen-witted man who knows the country. 

186 


THE PURSUIT OF CHUDLEIGH. 


18/ 


He has escaped to the south. As you know so 
well, Sir Henry Clinton is, or has been, advanc- 
ing up the Hudson with a strong force to the 
aid of Burgoyne, whom nothing else can save 
from us. This man — this prisoner who has es- 
caped — must not be permitted to reach Clinton 
with the news that Burgoyne is almost done 
for. It was important before the last battle 
that no messenger from Burgoyne should pass 
through our lines; it is still more important to- 
day. You understand? ” 

I bowed, as a sign that I understood. 

“ This escaped prisoner knows everything 
that has happened,” he resumed, “ and he must 
be overtaken. He will probably follow the 
direct road along the river, as he knows that 
haste is necessary. How many men do you 
want? ” 

I named Whitestone and a private, a strong, 
ready-witted fellow named Adams. 

“ What is the name of the man we are to 
capture? ” I asked. 

“ Chudleigh — Captain Ralph Chudleigh,” 
he replied. “ A tall man, dark hair and eyes, 
twenty-six to twenty-eight years of age. Do 

you know him? ” 

13 


1 88 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


I replied that I knew him. 

“ So much the better,” said our colonel with 
much delight. “ Aside from your other quali- 
fications, Mr. Shelby, you are the man of all 
men for this duty. Chudleigh will undoubtedly 
attempt to disguise himself, but since you know 
him so well he can scarce hide his face from 
you. But remember that he must be taken, 
dead or alive.” 

I had not much relish for the mission in the 
first place, and, for reasons, less relish when I 
knew that Chudleigh was the man whom I was 
to take. But in such affairs as these it is per- 
mitted to the soldier to choose only the one 
thing, and that is, to obey. 

We set out at once over the same road we 
had traveled twice so recently. Three good 
horses had been furnished us, and we were well 
armed. For a while we rode southward with 
much speed, and soon left behind us the last 
detachment of our beleaguering army. 

One question perplexed me: Would Chud- 
leigh be in his own British uniform, which he 
wore when he escaped, or did he manage to take 
away with him some rags of Continental attire, 
in which he would clothe himself first chance? 


THE PURSUIT OF CHUDLEIGH. 


189 

I could answer it only by watching for all men 
of suspicious appearance, no matter the cut or 
color of their clothing. 

We galloped along a fair road, but we met 
no one. Quiet travelers shun ground trodden 
by armies. It was past the noon hour when we 
came to a small house not far from the road- 
side. We found the farmer who owned it at 
home, and in answer to our questions, fairly 
spoken, he said three men had passed that day, 
two going north and one going south, all dressed 
as ordinary citizens. I was particularly in- 
terested in the one going south, and asked more 
about him. 

“ He was tall, dark, and young,” said the 
farmer. “ He looked like a man of small conse- 
quence, for his clothing was ragged and his face 
not overclean. He wanted food, and he ate 
with much appetite.” 

I asked if the man had paid for his dinner, 
and the farmer showed me silver fresh from the 
British mint. I could well believe that this 
was Chudleigh. However wary and circum- 
spect he might be he was bound to have food, 
and he could find it only by going to the houses 
he saw on his southern journey. 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


I90 

I was confirmed in my belief an hour later, 
when we met a countryman on foot, who at 
first evinced a great desire to run away from 
us, but who stopped, seeing our uniforms. He 
explained that he knew not whom to trust, for 
a short while before he was riding like ourselves; 
now he had no horse; a ragged man meeting 
him in the road had presented a pistol at his 
head and ordered him to give up his horse, 
which he did with much promptness, as the 
man’s finger lay very caressingly upon the trig- 
ger of the pistol. 

“ That was Chudleigh without doubt,” I said 
to Whitestone, “ and since he also is now 
mounted we must have a race for it.” 

He agreed with me, and we whipped our 
horses into a gallop again. In reality I had 
not much acquaintance with Chudleigh, but I 
trusted that I would know his face anywhere. 
Secure in this belief we pressed on. 

“Unless he’s left the road to hide — and that’s 
not probable, for he can’t afford delay — we 
ought to overhaul him soon,” said Whitestone. 

The road led up and down a series of lightly 
undulating hills. Just when we reached one 
crest we saw the back of a horseman on the 


THE PURSUIT OF CHUDLEIGH. 


191 

next crest, about a quarter of a mile ahead of 
us. By a species of intuition I knew that it was 
Chudleigh. Aside from my intuition, all the 
probabilities indicated Chudleigh, for we had 
the word of the dismounted farmer that his lead 
of us was but short. 

“ That’s our man!” exclaimed Whitestone, 
echoing our thought. 

As if by the same impulse, all three of us 
clapped spur to horse, and forward we went at 
a gallop that sent the wind rushing past us. 
We were much too far away for the fugitive 
to hear the hoof-beats of our horses, but by 
chance, I suppose, he happened to look back 
and saw us coming at a pace that indicated 
zeal. I saw him give his mount a great kick 
in the side, and the horse bounded forward so 
promptly that in thirty seconds the curve of the 
hill hid both borse and rider from our view. But 
that was not a matter discouraging to us. The 
river was on one side of us not far away, and 
on the other cultivated fields inclosed with 
fences. Chudleigh could not leave the road 
unless he dismounted. He was bound to do one 
of two things, outgallop us or yield. 

We descended our hill and soon rose upon 


192 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


the slope of Chudleigh’s. When we reached 
the crest, we saw him in the hollow beyond 
urging his horse to its best speed. He was 
bent far over upon the animal’s neck, and oc- 
casionally he gave him lusty kicks in the 
side. It was evident to us that whatever 
speed might be in that horse Chudleigh would 
get it out of him. And so would I, thought 
I, if I were in his place. A fugitive could 
scarce have more inducement than Chudleigh 
to escape. 

Measuring the distance with my eye, I con- 
cluded that we had gained a little. I drew from 
it the inference that we would certainly over- 
take him. Moreover, Chudleigh was making 
the mistake of pushing his horse too hard at 
the start. 

It is better to pursue than to be pursued, 
and a great elation of spirits seized me. The 
cool air rushing into my face and past my ears 
put bubbles in my blood. 

“ This beats watching houses in the night, 
does it not, Whitestone? ” I said. 

“ Aye, truly,” replied the sober sergeant, 
“ unless he has a pistol and concludes to use 
it.” 


THE PURSUIT OF CHUDLEIGH. 


193 

“ We will not fire until he does, or shows 
intent to do so,” I said. 

Whitestone and Adams nodded assent, and 
we eased our horses a bit that we might save 
their strength and speed. This maneuver en- 
abled the fugitive to gain slightly upon us, but 
we felt no alarm; instead we were encouraged, 
for his horse was sure to become blown before 
ours put forth their best efforts. 

Chudleigh raised up once to look back at 
us. Of course it was too far for us to see the 
expression of his face, but in my imagination 
anxiety was plainly writ there. 

“ How long a race will it be, do you think? ” 
I asked Whitestone. 

“ About four miles,” he said, “ unless a 
stumble upsets our calculations, and I don’t 
think we’ll have the latter, for the road looks 
smooth all the way.” 

The fugitive began to kick his horse with 
more frequency, which indicated increased anx- 
iety. 

“ It won’t be four miles,” I said to White- 
stone. 

“You’re right,” he replied; “maybe not 
three.” 


194 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


In truth it looked as if Whitestone’s second 
thought were right. We began to gain without 
the necessity of urging our horses. Chudleigh 
already had driven his own animal to exhaus- 
tion. I doubted if the race would be a matter 
of two miles. I wondered why he did not try 
a shot at us with his pistols. Bullets are often 
great checks to the speed of pursuers, and Chud- 
leigh must have known it. 

At the end of a mile we were gaining so 
rapidly that we could have reached the fugitive 
with a pistol ball, but I was averse to such rude 
methods, doubly so since he showed no intent 
on his own part to resort to them. 

A half mile ahead of us I saw a small house 
in a field by the roadside, but I took no thought 
of it until Chudleigh reached a parallel point 
in the road; then we were surprised to see him 
leap to the ground, leave his horse to go where 
it would, climb the fence, and rush toward the 
house. He pushed the door open, ran in, and 
closed it behind him. 

I concluded that he had given up all hope of 
escape except through a desperate defense, and 
I made hasty disposition of my small command. 
I was to approach the house from one side, 


THE PURSUIT OF CHUDLEIGH. 


195 

Whitestone from another, and Adams from a 
third. 

We hitched our horses and began our siege 
of the house, from which no sound issued. I 
approached from the front, using a fence as 
shelter. When I was within half a pistol shot 
the door of the house was thrown open with 
much force and rudeness, and a large woman, 
a cocked musket in her hand and anger on her 
face, appeared. She saw me, and began to be- 
rate me rapidly and wrathfully, at the same time 
making threatening movements with the mus- 
ket. She cried out that she had small use for 
those who were Tories now and Americans 
then, and robbers and murderers always. I 
explained that we were American soldiers 
in pursuit of an escaped prisoner of impor- 
tance who had taken refuge in her house, 
and commanded her to stand aside and let us 
pass. 

For answer she berated me more than ever, 
saying that it was but a pretext about a prisoner, 
and her husband was a better American than 
we. That put a most uncomfortable suspicion 
in my mind, and, summoning Whitestone, we 
held parley with her. 


196 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ You have pursued my husband until there 
is scarce a breath left in his body/’ she said. 

Whereupon, having pacified her to some ex- 
tent, we went into the house and found that she 
spoke the truth. Her husband was stretched 
upon a bed quite out of breath, in part from his 
gallop and more from fright. We could scarce 
persuade him that we were not those outlaws 
who belonged to neither army but who preyed 
upon whomsoever they could. 

Making such brief apologies as the time al- 
lowed, we mounted our horses and resumed the 
search. 

“ It was a mistake,” said Whitestone. 

I admitted that he spoke the truth, and re- 
solved I would trust no more to intuitions, 
which are sent but to deceive us. 

Anxiety now took me in a strong grip. Our 
mistaken chase had caused us to come very fast, 
and since we saw nothing of Chudleigh, I feared 
lest we had passed him in some manner. It 
therefore cheered me much, a half hour later, 
when I saw a stout man, whom I took to be a 
farmer, jogging comfortably toward us on a 
stout nag as comfortable-looking as himself. 
He was not like the other, suspicious and afraid, 


THE PURSUIT OF CHUDLEIGH. 


97 


and I was glad of it, for I said to myself that 
here was a man of steady habit and intelligence, 
a man who would tell us the truth and tell it 
clearly. 

He came on in most peaceable and assuring 
fashion, as if not a soldier were within a thou- 
sand miles of him. I hailed him, and he replied 
with a pleasant salutation. 

“ Have you met a man riding southward? ” 
I said. 

“ What kind of a man? ” he asked. 

“ A large man in citizen’s dress,” I replied. 

“ Young, or old?” 

“ Young — twenty-six or twenty-eight.” 

“ Anything else special about him? ” 

“ Dark hair and eyes and dark complexion; 
his horse probably very tired.” 

“ What do you want with this man? ” he 
asked, stroking a red whisker with a contem- 
plative hand. 

“ He is an escaped prisoner,” I replied, “ and 
it is of the greatest importance that we recap- 
ture him.” 

“ Did you say he was rather young? Looked 
like he might be six and twenty or eight and 
twenty? ” he asked. 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ Yes, that is he/’ I said eagerly. 

“ Tall, rather large? ” 

“ The very man.” 

“ Dark hair and eyes and dark complex- 
ion? ” 

“ Exactly! Exactly! ” 

“ His horse very tired? ” 

“ Our man beyond a doubt ! Which way 
did he go? ” 

“ Gentlemen, I never saw or heard of such 
a man,” he replied gravely, laying switch to his 
horse and riding on. 

We resumed our journey, vexation keeping 
us silent for some time. 

“ Our second mistake,” said Whitestone at 
length. 

As I did not answer, he added: 

“ But the third time means luck.” 

“ I doubt it,” I replied. My disbelief in signs 
and omens was confirmed by the failure of my 
intuition. 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE TAKING OF CHUDLEIGH. 

We were forced to ride with some slowness 
owing to the blown condition of our horses, and 
anxiety began to gnaw me to the marrow. We 
had come so fast that the time to overtake 
Chudleigh, if in truth we had not passed him 
already, had arrived. In such calculations I was 
interrupted by the sight of a loose horse in the 
road, saddled and bridled, but riderless. He 
was in a lather, like ours, and I guessed at once 
that this was the horse Chudleigh had taken. 
In some manner — perhaps he had seen us, 
though unseen himself — he had learned that he 
was pursued hotly, and, fearing to be overtaken, 
had abandoned his horse and taken to the woods 
and fields. Such at least was my guess. 

I esteemed it great good luck when I saw 
a man standing in the edge of a cornfield star- 
ing at us. He was a common-looking fellow 
199 


200 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


with a dirty face. Stupid, I thought, but per- 
haps he has seen what happened here and can 
tell me. I hailed him, and he answered in a thick 
voice, though not unfriendly. I asked him 
about the horse, and if he knew who had aban- 
doned him there. He answered with that de- 
gree of excitement a plowboy would most 
likely show on such occasions that he was just 
going to tell us about it. I bade him haste with 
his narration. 

He said, with thick, excited tongue, that a 
man had come along the road urging his horse 
into a gallop. When they reached the field 
the horse broke down and would go no farther. 
The rider, after belaboring him in vain, leaped 
down, and, leaving the horse to care for him- 
self, turned from the road. 

This news excited Whitestone, Adams, and 
me. It was confirmation of our suspicions, and 
proof also thatwewere pressing Chudleigh hard. 

“ How long ago was that? ” I asked. 

“ Not five minutes/’ replied the plowman. 

“ Which way did he go? ” I asked, my ex- 
citement increasing. 

“ He took the side road yonder,” replied the 
plowman. 


THE TAKING OF CHUDLEIGH. 


201 


“ What road? ” exclaimed Whitestone, 
breaking in. 

“ The road that leads off to the right — yon- 
der, at the end of the field.” 

I was about to set off in a gallop, but it oc- 
curred to me as a happy thought that this fel- 
low, knowing the country so well, would be 
useful as a guide. I ordered him to get on the 
loose horse, now somewhat rested, and lead the 
way. He demurred. But it was no time to be 
squeamish or overpolite, so I drew my pistol 
and warned him. Thereupon he showed him- 
self a man of judgment and mounted, and 
taking the lead of us, obedient to my com- 
mand, also showed himself to be a very fair 
horseman. 

In a few seconds we entered the diverging 
road, which was narrow, scarce more than a 
path. It led between two fields, and then 
through some thin woods. 

“ You are military folks,” said our guide, 
turning a look upon me. “ Is the man you are 
after a deserter? ” 

“ No,” said I, “ a spy.” 

“ If you overtake him and he fights, I don’t 
have any part in it,” he said. 


202 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ You needn’t risk your skin,” I said. “ It 
is enough for you to guide us.” 

I laughed a bit at his cowardice; but after 
all I had no right to laugh. It was no business 
of his to do our fighting for us. 

“ Perhaps he has turned into these woods,” 
said Whitestone. 

“ No, he has gone on,” said our guide, “ I 
can see his footsteps in the dust.” 

Traces like those of human footsteps were 
in truth visible in the dust, but we had no time 
to stop for examination. We rode on, watching 
the country on either side of the road. The 
heat and animation of the chase seemed to af- 
fect our guide, heavy plowman though he was. 

“ There go his tracks still! ” he cried. “ See, 
by the edge of the road, by the grass there? ” 

“ We’ll catch him in five minutes!” cried 
Adams, full of enthusiasm. 

Our guide was ten feet in front of me, lean- 
ing over and looking about with much eager- 
ness. A curve in the road two or three hun- 
dred yards ahead became visible. Suddenly I 
noticed an increase of excitement in the expres- 
sion of our guide. 

“ I see him! I see him! ” he cried. 


THE TAKING OF CHUDLEtGH. 


203 


“ Where? Where? ” I shouted. 

“ Yonder! yonder! Don’t you see, just 
turning the curve in the road? There! He has 
seen us too, and is drawing a pistol. Gentle- 
men, remember your agreement : I’m not to do 
any of the fighting. I will fall back.” 

“All right!” I cried. “You’ve done your 
share of the business. Drop back. — Forward, 
Whitestone! We’ve got our man now! ” 

In a high state of excitement we whipped 
our horses forward, paying no further atten- 
tion to the plowman, for whom in truth we 
had use no longer. Our horses seemed to share 
our zeal, and recalled their waning strength and 
spirits. Forward we went at a fine pace, all 
three of us straining our eyes to catch the (first 
glimpse of the fugitive when we should turn 
the curve around the hill. 

“Two to one I beat you, Whitestone!” I 
said. 

“ Then you’ll have to push your horse more,” 
said the sergeant, whose mount was neck and 
neck with mine. 

In truth it looked., as if he would pass me, 
but I managed to draw a supreme effort from 
my horse and we went ahead a little. How- 
14 


204 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


ever, I retained the advantage but a few mo- 
ments. Whitestone crept up again, and we 
continued to race neck and neck. Adams, upon 
whom we had not counted as a formidable an- 
tagonist, overhauled us, though he could not 
pass us. 

Thus we three, side by side, swept around 
the curve, and the command to the fugitive to 
halt and surrender was ready upon our lips. 

The turn of the curve brought us into a wide 
and bare plain, and we pulled up astonished. 
Nowhere was a human being visible, and upon 
that naked expanse concealment was impos- 
sible. 

We stared at each other in amazement, and 
then in shame. The truth of the trick struck 
me like a rifle shot. Why did I wait until he 
was gone to remember something familiar in 
the voice of that plowman, something known 
in the expression of that face? I think the 
truth came to me first, but before I said any- 
thing Whitestone ejaculated: 

“ Chudleigh! ” 

“ Without doubt,” I replied. 

“ I told you the third time would not fail,” 
he said. 


THE TAKING OF CHUDLEIGH. 


205 


“ I wish it had failed,” I exclaimed in 
wrath and fury, “ for he has made fools of 
us! ” 

We wheeled our horses about as if they 
turned on pivots and raced back after the wily 
plowman. I swore to myself a mighty oath 
that I would cease to be certain about the 
identity of anybody, even of Whitestone him- 
self. Whitestone swore out loud about a variety 
of things, and Adams was equal to his oppor- 
tunities. 

We were speedily back in the main road. 
I doubted not that Chudleigh had hurried on 
toward the south. I11 truth he could not afford 
to do otherwise, and he would profit as fast 
as he could by the breathing space obtained 
through the trick he had played upon us. I 
wondered at the man’s courage and presence 
of mind, and it was a marvel that we had not 
gone much farther on the wrong road before 
detecting the stratagem. 

The road lay across a level country and we 
saw -nothing of Chudleigh. Nevertheless we 
did not spare our weary horses. We were sure 
he was not very far ahead, and it was no time 
for mercy to horseflesh. Yet I thought of the 


206 the SUN OF SARATOGA. 

poor brutes. I said to Whitestone I trusted 
they would last. 

“ As long as his, perhaps,” replied White- 
stone. 

But the truth soon became evident that he 
was wrong in part. We heard a great groan, 
louder than a man can make, and Adams’s horse 
went down in a cloud of dust. I pulled up just 
enough to see that Adams was not hurt, and 
to shout to him: 

“ Follow us as best you can! ” 

Then on we went. Far ahead of us in the 
road we saw a black speck. Whether man, 
beast, or a stump, I could not say, but we hoped 
it was Chudleigh. 

“ See, it moves! ” cried Whitestone. 

Then it was not a stump, and the chance 
that it was Chudleigh increased. Soon it be- 
came apparent that the black object was not 
only moving, but moving almost as fast as we. 
By and by we could make out the figure of a 
man lashing a tired horse. That it was Chud- 
leigh no longer admitted of doubt. 

“We’ll catch him yet! His trick shall not 
avail him! ” I cried exultingly to Whitestone. 

The wise sergeant kept silent and saved his 


THE TAKING OF CHUDLEIGH. 


20 7 

breath. I looked back once and saw a man 
running after us, though far away. I knew it 
was Adams following us on foot, faithful to his 
duty. 

I felt a great shudder running through the 
horse beneath me, and then the faithful animal 
began to reel like a man in liquor. I could have 
groaned in disappointment, for I knew these 
signs betokened exhaustion, and a promise that 
the pursuit would be left to Whitestone alone. 
But even as my mind formed the thought, 
Whitest one’s horse fell as Adams’s had fallen. 
My own, seeing his last comrade go down, 
stopped stock still, and refused to stir another 
inch under the sharpest goad. 

“ What shall we do? ” I cried to White- 
stone. 

“ Follow on foot! ” he replied. “ His horse 
must be almost as far gone as ours! ” 

We paused only to snatch our pistols from 
the holsters, and then on foot we pierced the 
trail of dust Chudleigh’s horse had left behind 
him. The fine dust crept into eyes, nose, mouth, 
and ears. I coughed and spluttered, and just 
as I was rubbing sight back into my eyes I 
heard a joyful cry from Whitestone. I was able 


208 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


to see then through the dust, and I beheld 
Chudleigh abandoning his horse and taking to 
the woods on foot. 

“ It’s a foot race now, and not a horse race! ” 
I said to Whitestone. 

“ Yes, and we must still win! ” he replied. 

Poor Adams was lost to sight behind us. 

About two hundred yards from the road 
the woods began. I feared that if Chudleigh 
reached these he might elude us, and I pushed 
myself as I had pushed my horse. Being long- 
legged and country bred, I am a fair runner; 
in fact, it is a muscular talent upon which I 
used to pride myself. The sergeant puffed 
much at my elbow, but managed to keep his 
place. 

I now perceived with much joy that we 
could outrun Chudleigh. When he dashed into 
the woods we had made a very smart gain upon 
him, and in truth were too near for him to 
elude us by doubling or turning in the under- 
growth. Despite the obstacle of the trees and 
the bushes we were yet able to keep him in 
view, and, better acquainted with this sort of 
work than he, we gained upon him even more 
rapidly than before. We flattered ourselves 


THE TAKING OF CHUDLEIGH. 


209 


that we would soon have him. Though it was 
a heavy draught upon my breath, I shouted 
with all my might to Chudleigh to stop and 
yield. For answer he whirled around and fired 
a pistol at us. The sergeant grunted, and 
stopped. 

“Go on and take him yourself!” he said 
hastily to me. “ His bullet’s in my leg! No 
bones broke, but I can’t run any more! Adams 
will take care of me! ” 

Obedient to his command and my own im- 
pulse I continued the chase. Perhaps if I had 
been cooler in mind I might not have done so, 
for Chudleigh had proved himself a man; he 
probably had another pistol, and another bullet 
in that other pistol; in case that other bullet 
and I met, I knew which would have to yield, 
but I consoled myself with the reflection that I 
too had a pistol and some acquaintance with its 
use. 

Chudleigh did not look back again, and per- 
haps did not know that he was now pursued by 
only one man. He continued his flight as zeal- 
ously as ever. As I may have observed before, 
and with truth too, it incites one’s courage won- 
derfully to have a man run from him-, and see- 


210 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


in g Chudleigh’s back I began to feel quite com- 
petent to take him alone. We wound about 
among the trees at a great rate. I was gaining, 
though I was forced to pump my breath up 
from great depths. But I was consoled by the 
reflection that, however tired I might be, surely 
he fared no better. I shouted to him again and 
again, to stop, but he ran as if he were born deaf. 

Presently I noticed that he was curving back 
toward the road, and I wondered at his purpose. 
A moment later he burst from the trees into 
the open ground. I was within fair pistol shot, 
and, with trees and bushes no longer obstruct- 
ing, he was a good target. I doubted not that 
I could hit him, and since he would not stop 
for my voice, I must see if a bullet would make 
him more obedient. 

I raised my pistol and took the good aim 
which one can do running if he has had the 
practice. But my heart revolted at the shot. 
If I could risk so much for Kate Van Auken’s 
brother, surely I could risk something for Kate 
Van Auken’s lover. I do not take praise to my- 
self for not shooting Chudleigh, as I was think- 
ing that if I did fire the shot I would have but 
a poor tale to tell to Mistress Catherine. 


THE TAKING OF CHUDLEIGH. 


21 1 


I let down the hammer of the pistol and 
stuffed the weapon into my pocket. Chudleigh 
was now running straight toward the road. My 
wonder what his purpose might be increased. 

Of a sudden he drew a second pistol and 
fired it at me, but his bullet sped wide of the 
mark. He threw the pistol on the ground and 
tried to run faster. 

I thought that when he reached the road he 
would follow it to the south, hoping to shake 
me off; but, very much to my surprise, he 
crossed it, and kept a straight course toward 
the river. Then I divined that he being a good 
swimmer, hoped I was not, and that thus he 
might escape me. But I can swim as well as run, 
and I prepared my mind for the event. When he 
reached the river he threw off his coat with a 
quick movement and sprang boldly into the 
stream. But I was ready. I threw my own 
coat aside — the only one I had — and leaped 
into the water after him. 

If I was a good swimmer, so was Chudleigh. 
When I rose from my first splash he was al- 
ready far from me, floating partly with the 
stream, and following a diagonal course toward 
the farther shore. I swam after him with vigor- 


212 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


ous strokes. Curiously enough, the severe exer- 
tion to which I had been subjecting myself on 
land did not seem to affect me in the water. I 
suppose a new set of muscles came into play, 
for I felt fresh and strong. Moreover, I re- 
solved that I would cling to Chudleigh to the 
very last; that I would not let him by any 
chance escape me. I felt again that the entire 
fate of the great campaign depended upon me, 
and me alone. With such a feeling, one’s sense 
of importance grows much, and I think it made 
my arm stronger also, which was what I needed 
more particularly just then. 

Chudleigh dived once and remained under 
water a long time, with the probable intent of 
deceiving me in regard to his course. But the 
trick worked against him rather than for him; 
when he came up he was nearer to me than 
before. I thought also that his strokes were 
growing weaker, and I was confirmed in such 
belief by the amount of water he splashed about, 
as if his efforts were desperate rather than judi- 
cious. 

I swam, my strokes long and steady, and 
gained upon him with much rapidity. We were 
approaching the shore, when he, looking back, 


THE TAKING OF CHUDLEIGH. 


213 

perceived that I must overtake him before he 
could reach land. 

With an abruptness for which I was unpre- 
pared, he swam about and faced me as much 
as to say: “ Come on; if you take me, you must 
fight me first.” 

Chudleigh, with only his head above water, 
was not especially beautiful to look at. The dirt 
with which he had disguised himself when he 
played false guide to us was washed off partly, 
and remained partly in streaks of mud, which 
made him look as if a hot gridiron had been 
slapped of a sudden upon his face. Moreover, 
Chudleigh was angry, very angry; his eyes 
snapped as if he were wondering why I could 
not let him alone. 

I may have looked as ugly as Chudleigh, 
but I could not see for myself. I swam a little 
closer to him, looking him straight in the eye, 
in order that I might see what he intended to 
do the moment he thought it. 

“ Why do you follow me? ” he asked, with 
much anger in his tone. 

“ Why do you run from me? ” I asked. 

“ What I do is no business of yours,” he 


said. 


214 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ Oh, yes, it is,” I replied. “ You’re Captain 
Chudleigh of the British army, an escaped pri- 
soner, and I’ve come to recapture you.” 

“ I don’t see how you’re going to do it,” 
he said. 

“ I do,” I replied, though, to tell the truth, 
I had not yet thought of a way to manage the 
matter, which seemed to present difficulties. In 
the meantime I confined myself to treading 
water. Chudleigh did the same. 

“ That was a dirty trick you played on us 
back there,” I said, “ palming yourself off on us 
as a guide.” 

“ I didn’t do it,” he replied in an injured 
tone. “ You’re to blame yourself. You forced 
me at the pistol’s muzzle.” 

He told the truth, I was forced to confess. 

“ We’ll let that pass,” I said. “ Now, will 
you surrender? ” 

“ Never!” he replied, in manner most de- 
termined. 

“ Then you will force me to a violent re- 
capture,” I said. 

“ I fail to see how you are going to do it,” 
he said with much grimness. “ If you seize me 
here in the water, I will seize you, and then we 


THE TAKING OF CHUDLEIGH. 


215 

will drown together, which will be very unpleas- 
ant for both of us.” 

There was much truth in what he said. A 
blind man or a fool could see it. 

“ Let us swim to land and fight it out with 
our fists,” I proposed, remembering how I had 
overcome Albert, and confident that I could 
dispose of Chudleigh in similar fashion. 

“ Oh, no,” he said decidedly, “ I am very 
comfortable where I am.” 

“ Then you like water better than most Brit- 
ish officers,” I said. 

“ It has its uses,” he replied contentedly. 

There was nothing more to do just then but 
to tread water and think. 

“ Come, come, captain,” I said after a while, 
“ be reasonable. I’ve overtaken you. You 
can’t get away. Surrender like a gentleman, 
and let’s go ashore and dry ourselves. This 
water’s getting cold.” 

“ I see no reason why I should surrender,” 
he replied. “ Besides, the water is no colder 
for you than it is for me.” 

There was no answer to this logic. More- 
over, what he said sounded like a challenge. 
So I set myself to thinking with more concentra- 


2l6 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


tion than ever. There was another and longer 
interval of silence. I hoped that Whitestone 
or Adams would appear, but neither did so. 
After all, I had little right to expect either. We 
had left them far behind, and also we had 
changed our course. There was nothing to 
guide them. 

I addressed myself once more to Chudleigh’s 
reason. 

“ Your errand is at an end,” I said. 
“ Whether I take you now or not, you can not 
shake me off. You will never get through to 
Clinton. Besides, you are losing all your pre- 
cious time here in the river.” 

But he preserved an obstinacy most strange 
and vexatious. He did not even reply to me, 
but kept on treading water. I perceived that I 
must use with him some other means than logic, 
however sound and unanswerable the latter 
might be. 

Sometimes it happens to me, as doubtless 
it does to other people, that after being long- 
in a puzzle, the answer comes to me so sud- 
denly and so easily that I wonder why I did not 
see it first glance. 

Without any preliminaries that would seem 


THE TAKING OF CHUDLEIGII. 


21 ; 


to warn Chudleigh, I dived out of sight. When 
I came up I was in such shallow water that I 
could wade. Near me was a huge bowlder pro- 
truding a good two feet above the water. I 
walked to it, climbed upon it, and taking a com- 
fortable position above the water, looked at 
Chudleigh, who seemed to be much surprised 
and aggrieved at my sudden countermarch. 

“ What do you mean? ” he asked. 

“ Nothing,” I replied, “ except that I am 
tired of treading water. Come and join me; 
it’s very pleasant up here.” 

He declined my invitation, which I had 
worded most courteously. I remained silent 
for a while; then I said: 

“ Better come. You can’t tread water for- 
ever. If you stay there much longer you’ll 
catch the cramp and drown.” 

I lolled on the bowlder and awaited the end 
with calmness and satisfaction. My signal ad- 
vantage was apparent. 

“ I’ll swim to the other shore,” said he pres- 
ently. 

“ You can’t,” I replied. “ It’s too far; you 
haven’t strength enough left for it.” 

I could see that he was growing tired. He 


218 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


looked around him at either shore and up and 
down the river, but we were the only human 
beings within the circle of that horizon. 

“ What terms of surrender do you pro- 
pose? ” he said at last, with a certain despair 
in his tone. 

“ Unconditional.” 

That is too hard.” 

“ My advantage warrants the demand.” 

He was silent again for a few moments, and 
was rapidly growing weaker. I thought I 
would hasten matters. 

“ I will not treat you badly,” I said. “ All 
I want to do is to take you back to our army.” 

“ Well, I suppose I must accept,” he said, 
“ for I am growing devilish cold and tired.” 

“ Pledge your honor,” I said, “ that you 
will make no attempt to escape, with the under- 
standing that the pledge does not forbid 
rescue.” 

“ I give you my word,” he said. 

Whereupon he swam to shore, to the great 
relief of us both. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE RETURN WITH CHUDLEIGH. 

We climbed up the bank, and sat for some 
time drying in the sun. We were wet, and, 
moreover, had drunk large quantities of the 
Hudson River. As a regular thing, I prefer dry 
land as a place of inhabitation. 

While the sun dried our bodies and clothing 
I was thinking. Though I had taken my man, 
and that, too, single-handed, my position was 
not the best in the world. I was now on the 
wrong side of the river, and I had lost my 
weapons and my comrades. Also I was hungry. 

“ Chudleigh,” I asked, “ are you hungry? ’ 

“ Rather,” he replied with emphasis. 

“How are we to get something to eat?” 
I asked. 

“ That’s your affair, not mine,” he replied. 
“ I have nothing to do but to remain captured.” 

I thought I saw in him an inclination to be 
15 2I 9 


220 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


disagreeable, which, to say the truth, was scarce 
the part of a gentleman after the handsome 
fashion in which I had treated him. In the face 
of such ingratitude, I resolved to use the privi- 
leges of my superior position. 

“Are you about dry?” I asked. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then get up and march.” 

He seemed to resent my stern tone, but in- 
asmuch as he had provoked it he had no cause 
for complaint. If he intended to assert all the 
rights of a prisoner, then I equally would assert 
all the rights of a captor. 

“ Which way? ” he asked. 

“ Northward, along the river bank. Keep 
in front of me,” I said. 

Obedient to my orders he stalked off at a 
pretty gait, and I followed. We marched thus 
for half a mile. Chudleigh glanced back at me 
once or twice. I seemed not to notice it, though 
I could guess what was passing in his mind. 

“ If I hadn’t given my word,” he said, “ I 
think I’d fight it out with you, fist and skull.” 

“ I offered you the chance,” I said, “ when 
we were in the river, but you would not accept 
it. You’ve heard many wise sayings about lost 


THE RETURN WITH CHUDLEIGH. 


221 


opportunities, and this proves the truth of 
them.” 

“ That’s so,” he said with a sigh of deep re- 
gret. 

“ Besides,” I added, in the way of consola- 
tion for his lost opportunity, “ you would gain 
nothing by it but bruises. I am larger and 
stronger than you.” 

He measured me with his eye and concluded 
that I spoke truth, for he heaved another sigh, 
but of comfort. 

“ Now, Chudleigh,” I said, “ a man can be 
a fool sometimes and lose nothing, but he can’t 
be a fool all the time and gather the profits of 
the earth. Drop back here with me and let us 
talk and act sensibly.” 

He wrinkled his brow a moment or two, as 
if in thought, and accepted my invitation. 
Whereupon we became very good compan- 
ions. 

In reality I felt as much trouble about Chud- 
leigh as myself. It was like the trouble I had 
felt on Albert’s account. He had penetrated 
our lines in citizen’s clothes, and if I took him 
back to our camp in the same attire he might 
be regarded as a spy, with all the unpleasant 


222 


THE .SUN OF SARATOGA. 


consequences such a thing entails. Having 
spared Chudleigh’s life once from scruples, I 
had no mind to lead him to the gallows. I 
must get a British uniform for him, though 
how was more than I could tell. The problem 
troubled me much. 

But the advance of hunger soon drove 
thoughts of Chudleigh’s safety out of my mind, 
and, stubborn Englishman though he was, he 
was fain to confess that he too felt the desire 
for food. Along that side of the river the set- 
tlements were but scant, and nowhere did we 
see a house. 

That we would encounter Whitestone and 
Adams was beyond all probability, for they 
would never surmise that we had crossed the 
river. Chudleigh and I looked ruefully and 
hungrily at each other. 

“ Chudleigh,” I said, “ you are more trouble 
a captive than a fugitive.” 

“ The responsibility is yours,” he said. “ I 
decline to carry the burdens of my captor. Find 
me something to eat.” 

We trudged along for more than an hour, 
somewhat gloomy and the pains of hunger in- 
creasing. I was about to call a halt, that we 


THE RETURN WITH CHUDLEIGH. 


223 


might rest and that I might think about our 
difficulties, when I saw a column of smoke ris- 
ing above a hill. I called Chudleigh’s atten- 
tion to it, and he agreed with me that we ought 
to push on and see what it was. 

I was convinced that friends must be at the 
bottom of that column of smoke. If any British 
party had come so far north, which in itself was 
improbable, it could scarce be so careless as 
to give to the Americans plain warning of its 
presence. 

It was a long walk, but we were cheered by 
the possibility that our reward would be dinner. 
Chudleigh seemed to cherish some lingering 
hope that it was a party of British or Tories 
who would rescue him, but I told him to save 
himself such disappointments. 

In a short time we came in view of those 
who had built the fire, and I was delighted to 
find my surmise that they were Americans was 
correct. 

They numbered some fifty or a hundred, 
and I guessed they were a detachment on the 
way to join the northern army beleaguering 
Burgoyne. 

“ Chudleigh,” I said as we approached the 


224 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


first sentinel, “ will you promise to do all that 
I say? ” 

“ Of course; I am your prisoner,” he re- 
plied. 

I hailed the sentinel, and my uniform pro- 
cured for me a friendly reception. Chudleigh 
I introduced vaguely as a countryman travel- 
ing northward with me. The men were eat- 
ing, and I told them we were making close 
acquaintance with starvation. They invited us 
to join them, and we fell to with great prompti- 
tude. 

I could tell them something about affairs at 
the north, and they could give me the latest 
news from the south. They told me that Clin- 
ton was still below Albany, hesitating and 
awaiting with impatience some message from 
Burgoyne. 

I rejoiced more than ever that I had stopped 
Chudleigh, and felt pride in my exploit. I hope 
I can be pardoned for it. It was but natural 
that Chudleigh’s emotions should be the op- 
posite of mine, and I watched his face to see 
how he would take this talk. It was easy 
enough to see regret expressed there, though 
he sought to control himself. 


THE RETURN WITH CHUDLEIGH. 


225 


The talk of these recruits was very bitter 
against the British. The Indians with Bur- 
goyne had committed many cruel deeds before 
they fled back to Canada, and these country- 
men were full of the passion for revenge. I 
often think that if the British in London knew 
what atrocities their red allies have committed 
in their wars with us they would understand 
more easily why so many of us are inflamed 
against the Englishman. 

These men were rehearsing the latest mur- 
ders by the Indians, and they showed very plain- 
ly their desire to arrive at the front before Bur- 
goyne was taken. Nor did they spare the name 
of Englishman. I was sorry on Chudleigh’s ac- 
count that the talk had taken such drift. He 
took note of it from the first, because his red 
face grew redder, and he squirmed about in the 
manner which shows uneasiness. 

“ Chudleigh,” I whispered at a moment 
when the others were not looking, “ keep 
still. Remember you are my prisoner.” 

But he sat there swelling and puffing like 
an angry cat. 

While the others were denouncing them, I 
made some excuses, most perfunctory, it is true, 


226 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


for the British; but this was only an additional 
incitement to a bellicose man named Hicks. 
He damned the British for every crime known 
to Satan. Chudleigh was so red in the face I 
thought the blood would pop out through his 
cheeks, and, though I shoved him warningly 
with my boot, he blurted out his wrath. 

“ The English are as good as anybody, sir, 
and you accuse them falsely! ” he said. 

“ What is it to you? ” exclaimed Hicks, turn- 
ing to him in surprise and anger. 

“ I am an Englishman, sir,” said Chudleigh 
with ill-judged haughtiness, “ and I will not en- 
dure such abuse.” 

“ Oh, you are an Englishman, are you, and 
you won’t endure abuse, won’t you? ” said 
Hicks with irony; and then to me, “We did not 
understand you to say he was an Englishman.” 

I saw that we were in a pickle, and I thought 
it best to tell the whole truth in a careless way, 
as if the thing were but a trifle. 

“ The man is an English officer, an escaped 
prisoner, whom I have retaken,” I said. “ I 
did not deem it worth while to make long ex- 
planations, especially as we must now push on 
after you have so kindly fed us.” 


THE RETURN WITH CHUDLEIGH. 


227 


But Hicks was suspicious; so were the 
others, and their suspicions were fed by the 
mutterings and growls of Chudleigh, who 
showed a lack of tact remarkable even in an 
Englishman out of his own country. Then, to 
appease them, I went into some of the long ex- 
planations which I had said I wanted to avoid. 

“ That’s all very well,” broke in Hicks, “ but 
if this man is an English officer, why is he not 
in the English uniform? I believe he is an 
Englishman, as you say; he talks like it, but 
tell me why he is dressed like a civilian.” 

The others followed Hicks’s lead and began 
to cry: 

“ Spy! Spy! Spy!” 

In truth I felt alarm. 

“ This is no spy,” I said. “ He is Captain 
Chudleigh, of the English army.” 

“ He may be Captain Chudleigh and a spy 
too,” said Hicks coolly. “ I am not sure about 
the Chudleigh part, but I am about the spy 
part.” 

“ Hang him for good count! ” cried some of 
the others, who seemed to be raw recruits. The 
talk about the Indian atrocities was fresh in 
their minds, and they were in a highly inflam- 


228 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


matory state. I recognized a real and present 
danger. 

“Men,” I cried, “you are going too far! 
This prisoner is mine, and it is of importance 
that I take him back to the army.” 

But my protest only seemed to excite them 
further. In truth they took it as a threat. 
Some of them began to demand that I too 
should be hung, that I was a Tory in disguise. 
But the body of them did not take up this 
cry. The bulk of their wrath fell upon Chud- 
leigh, who was undeniably an Englishman. Two 
or three of the foremost made ready to seize 
him. I was in no mind to have all my plans 
spoiled, and I snatched a musket from a stack 
and threatened to shoot the first man who put 
a hand on Chudleigh. 

Chudleigh himself behaved very well, and 
sat, quite calm. The men hesitated at sight of 
the rifle, and this gave me a chance to appeal 
to their reason, which was more accessible now 
since they seemed to be impressed by my ear- 
nestness. I insisted that all I had said was the 
truth, and they would be doing much injury 
to our cause if they interfered with us. I fancy 
that I pleaded our case with eloquence, though 


THE RETURN WITH CHUDLEIGII. 


229 


I ought not to boast. At any rate they were 
mollified, and concluded to abandon their proj- 
ect of hanging Chudleigh. 

“ I’ve no doubt he deserves hanging,” said 
Hicks, “ but I guess we’ll leave the job for some- 
body else.” 

Chudleigh was about to resent this, but I 
told him to shut up so abruptly that he forgot 
himself and obeyed. 

I was anxious enough to be clear of these 
men, countrymen though they were; so we bade 
them adieu and tramped on, much strengthened 
by the rest and food. 

“ Captain,” said I to Chudleigh, though try- 
ing to preserve a polite tone, “ you do not seem 
to appreciate the beauty and virtue of silence.” 

“ I will not have my country or my country- 
men insulted,” replied he in most belligerent 
tones. 

“ Well, at any rate,” I said, “ I had to save 
your life at the risk of my own.” 

“ It was nothing more than your duty,” he 
replied. “ I am your prisoner, and you are re- 
sponsible for my safety.” 

Which I call rank ingratitude on Chudleigh’s 
part, though technically true. 


230 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


It was late in the day when we met the de- 
tachment, and dark now being near at hand, 
it was apparent that we would have to sleep 
in the woods, which, however, was no hard- 
ship for soldiers, since the nights were warm 
and the ground dry. When the night arrived 
I proposed to Chudleigh that we stop and make 
our beds on the turf, which was rather thick and 
soft at that spot. He assented in the manner 
of one who had made up his mind to obey me 
in every particular. 

But before lying down I had the fore- 
thought to ask from Chudleigh a guarantee 
that he would not walk away in the night while 
I was asleep. I reminded him of his pledge 
that he would not attempt to escape, barring 
a rescue. 

But he took exceptions with great prompt- 
ness, claiming with much plausibility, I was fain 
to admit, that his pledge did not apply in such 
a case. He argued that if I lay down and went 
to sleep he was no longer guarded; conse- 
quently he was not a prisoner; consequently he 
would go away. Since he chose to stick to his 
position, I had no way to drive him from it, 
whether reasonable or unreasonable. 


THE RETURN WITH CHUDLEIGH. 


231 

“ Then I will bind you hand and foot,” I 
said. 

He reminded me with an air of triumph that 
I had nothing with which to bind him, which 
unfortunately was true. 

“ What am I to do? ” I said as much to my- 
self as to him. 

“ Nothing that I can see,” he replied, “ but 
to guard me while I sleep.” 

Without another word he lay down upon 
the turf, and in less than two minutes his snore 
permeated the woods. 

Reflecting in most unhappy fashion that if 
it were not for the great interests of our cam- 
paign I would much rather be his prisoner than 
have him mine, I sat there making fierce efforts 
to keep my eyelids apart. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


MY THANKS. 

About midnight I reached the limit of en- 
durance. I was firm in my resolution that I 
would not sleep, and while still firm in it I slept. 
When I awoke it was a fine day. For a moment 
I was in a cold terror, feeling sure Chudleigh 
had slipped away while I slept the sleep that 
had overpowered me. But a calm, evenly at- 
tuned snore that glided peacefully through the 
arches of the woods reassured me. 

Chudleigh was lying on his back, sleeping. 
He was as heavy as a log, and I knew that he 
had not known a single waking moment since 
he lay down the night before. I dragged him 
about with rudeness and he opened his eyes re- 
gretfully. Presently he announced that he 
felt very fresh and strong, and asked me where 

I expected to get breakfast. He said he was 
232 


MY THANKS. 


233 


sorry for me, as he knew I must be very tired 
and sleepy after sitting up on guard all night. 

I gave him no answer, but commanded him 
to resume the march with me. We walked on 
with diligence through a breakfastless country. 
Chudleigh, though suffering from hunger, was 
frequent in his expressions of sympathy for me. 
He said he had the utmost pity for any man 
who was compelled to sit up an entire night 
and watch prisoners; but I replied that I throve 
upon it, and then Chudleigh showed chagrin. 

We had the good fortune, about two hours 
before noon, to find the house of a farmer, who 
sold us some food, and cared not whether we 
were American or British, Tory or nothing, so 
long as we were good pay. 

A half hour after leaving this place I decided 
that we ought to recross the river. Chudleigh 
offered no objection, knowing that he had no 
right to do so, being a prisoner. I had no 
mind to take another swim, so I made search 
along the bank for something that would serve 
as a raft, and was not long in finding it. 

Having proved to Chudleigh that it was as 
much to his benefit as to mine to help me, we 
rolled a small tree that had fallen near the 


234 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


water’s edge into the river, and, sitting astride it, 
began our ride toward the farther shore. I 
had a pole with which I could direct the course 
of our raft, and with these aids it seemed 
rather an easy matter to cross. I allowed 
the tree to drift partly with the current, but 
all the time gently urged it toward the farther 
shore. 

We floated along quite peacefully. So far 
as we could see we were alone upon the broad 
surface of the river, and the shores too were 
deserted. I remarked upon the loneliness of it 
all to Chudleigh, and he seemed impressed. 

“ Chudleigh,” I said, “ we’re having an easier 
time recrossing the river than we had cross- 
ing it.” 

“ So it would seem,” he replied, “ but we 
won’t unless you look out for the current and 
those rocks there.” 

I had twisted my face about while speaking 
to Chudleigh, and in consequence neglected the 
outlook ahead. We had reached a shallow 
place in the river where some sharp rocks stuck 
up, and the water eddied about them in manner 
most spirited. The front end of our log was 
caught in one of these eddies and whirled about 


MY THANKS. 


235 


with violence. I was thrown off, and though I 
grasped at the log it slipped away from me. 
I whirled about to recover myself, but the fierce 
current picked me up and dashed me against 
one of the projecting rocks. With a backward 
twist I was able to save myself a little, but my 
head struck the cruel stone with grievous 
force. 

I saw many stars appear suddenly in the full 
day. Chudleigh and the log vanished, and I 
was drifting away through the atmosphere. I 
was not wholly unconscious, and through the 
instinct of an old swimmer made some motions 
which kept me afloat a little while with the 
current. 

I had too little mind left to command my 
nerves and muscles, but enough to know that I 
was very near death. In a dazed and bewildered 
sort of way I expected the end, and was loath 
to meet it. 

The blue sky was rapidly fading into noth- 
ing, when some voice from a point a thousand 
miles away called to me to hold up a little 
longer. The voice was so sharp and imperious 
that it acted like a tonic upon me, and brain 
resumed a little control over body. I tried to 
16 


236 THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

swim, but I was too weak to do more than 
paddle a little. The voice shouted again, and 
encouraged me to persevere. 

In truth I tried to persevere, but things 
were whizzing about so much in my head and 
I was so weak that I could do but little. I 
thought I was bound to go down, with the 
whole river pouring into my ears. 

“ That’s a good fellow! ” shouted the voice. 
“Hold up just a minute longer, and I’ll have 
you safe! ” 

I saw dimly a huge figure bearing down 
upon me. It reached out and grasped me by 
the collar. 

“ Steady, now! ” continued the voice. 
“ Here comes our tree, and we’ll be safe in 
twenty seconds! ” 

The tree, looking like a mountain, floated 
down toward us. My rescuer reached out, 
seized it, and then dragged us both upon it. 
Reposing in safety, mind and strength re- 
turned, and things resumed their natural size 
and shape. Chudleigh, the Hudson River run- 
ning in little cascades from his hair down his 
face, was sitting firmly astride the log and look- 
ing at me with an air of satisfaction. 


MY THANKS. 


237 


“ Chudleigh,” I said, “ I believe you have 
saved my life.” 

“ Shelby,” he replied, “ I know it.” 

“ Why didn’t you escape? ” I asked. 

“ You compel me to remind you that I am 
a gentleman, Mr. Shelby,” he said. 

That was all that ever passed between us 
on the subject, though I reflected that I was 
not in his debt, for if he had saved my life I had 
saved his. 

We had no further difficulty in reaching the 
desired shore, where the sun soon dried us. We 
continued our journey in very amicable fashion, 
Chudleigh no doubt feeling relief because he 
was now in a measure on even terms with me. 
I, too, was in a state of satisfaction. Unless 
Burgoyne had retreated very fast, we could not 
now be far from the lines of the American army, 
and I thought that my troubles with my pris- 
oner were almost at an end. I hoped that Bur- 
goyne had not been taken in my absence, for 
I wished to be present at the taking. I also 
had in my mind another plan with which Chud- 
leigh was concerned. It was a plan of great 
self-sacrifice, and I felt the virtuous glow 
which arises from such resolutions. 


238 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


We paused again, by and by, for rest, the 
sun having become warm and the way dusty. 
Chudleigh sat down on a stone and wiped his 
damp face, while I went to a brook, which I had 
seen glimmering among the trees, for a drink 
of fresh water. I had just knelt down to drink 
when I heard a clattering of hoofs. Rising 
hastily, I saw two men riding toward Chudleigh. 
Though the faces of these two men were much 
smeared with dust, I recognized them readily 
and joyfully. They were Whitestone and 
Adams. 

My two comrades evidently had seen and 
recognized Chudleigh. They raised a shout and 
galloped toward him as if they feared he would 
flee. I came down to the edge of the wood 
and stopped there to see at my leisure what 
might happen. 

Chudleigh sat upon the stone unmoved. 
As a matter of course he both saw and heard 
Whitestone and Adams, but he was a phleg- 
matic sort of fellow and took no notice. White- 
stone reached him first. Leaping from his horse, 
the gallant sergeant exclaimed: 

“ Do you surrender, captain? ” 

“ Certainly,” said Chudleigh. 


MY THANKS. 


239 

“ It’s been a long chase, captain, but we’ve 
got you at last,” continued the sergeant. 

“ So it seems,” said Chudleigh, with the 
same phlegm. 

Then I came from the wood and cut the ser- 
geant’s comb for him; but he was so glad to 
see me again that he was quite willing to lose 
the glory of the recapture. He explained that 
he had been overtaken by Adams. Together 
they had wandered around in search of Chud- 
leigh and me. Giving up the hunt as useless, 
they had obtained new horses and were on the 
way back to the army. 

We were now four men and two horses, and 
the men taking turns on horseback, we increased 
our speed greatly. 

Whitestone and Adams were in fine feather, 
but there was one question that yet bothered 
me. I wanted to take Chudleigh back in his 
own proper British uniform, and thus save him 
from unpleasant possibilities. I did not see how 
it could be done, but luck helped me. 

We met very soon a small party of Ameri- 
cans escorting some British prisoners. Telling 
my companions to wait for me, I approached 
the sergeant who was in charge of the troop. 


240 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


Making my manner as important as I could, 
and speaking in a low tone,' as if fearful that I 
would be overheard — which I observe always 
impresses people — I told him that one of our 
number was about to undertake a most deli- 
cate and dangerous mission. It chanced that 
I had some slight acquaintance with this ser- 
geant, and therefore he had no reason to doubt 
my words, even if I am forced to say it myself. 

He pricked up his ears at once, all curiosity, 
and wanted to know the nature of the business. 
I pointed to Chudleigh, who was standing some 
distance away with Whitestone and Adams, and 
said he was going to enter the British lines as 
a spy in order to procure most important in- 
formation. 

“ A dangerous business, you say truly. He 
must be a daring fellow,” said my man, nod- 
ding his head in the direction of Chudleigh. 

“ So he is,” I said, “ ready at any moment 
to risk his life for the cause, but we need one 
thing.” 

He asked what it was. 

“ A disguise,” I said. “ If he is to play the 
British soldier, of course he must have a British 
soldier’s clothes.” 


MY THANKS. 


241 


I made no request, but I looked suggestive- 
ly at the British prisoners. The sergeant, who 
was all for obliging me, took the hint at once. 
He picked out the very best uniform in the lot, 
and made the man who wore it exchange it for 
Chudleigh’s old clothes. Chudleigh, who had 
been learning wisdom in the last day or two, 
was considerate enough to keep his mouth shut, 
and we parted from the sergeant and his troop 
with many mutual expressions of good will. 
The uniform did not fit Chudleigh, nor was it 
that of an officer, but these were minor details 
to which no attention would be paid in the press 
of a great campaign. 

The matter of the uniform disposed of, we 
pressed forward with renewed spirit, and soon 
reached the first sentinels of our army, which 
we found surrounding that of Burgoyne. It 
was with great satisfaction that I delivered 
Chudleigh to my colonel. 

The colonel was delighted at the recapture, 
and praised me with such freedom that I began 
to have a budding suspicion that I ought to be 
commander in chief of the army. However, I 
made no mention of the suspicion. Instead, 
I suggested to the colonel that as Chudleigh 


242 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


had escaped once, he might escape again, and 
it would be well to exchange him for some 
officer of ours whom the British held. 

The colonel took to the idea, and said he 
would speak to the general about it. In the 
morning he told me it would be done, and I 
immediately asked him for the favor of taking 
Chudleigh into the British camp, saying that as 
I had been his jailer so much already, I would 
like to continue in that capacity until the end. 

The colonel was in great good humor with 
me, and he granted the request forthwith. As 
I left to carry out the business, he said, “ The 
exchange is well enough, but we’ll probably 
have your man back in a few days.” 

In truth it did look rather odd that the 
British should be exchanging prisoners with us 
upon what we regarded as the unavoidable eve 
of their surrender, but they chose to persevere 
in the idea that we were yet equal enemies. 
Nevertheless, the coils of our army were steadily 
tightening around them. All the fords were 
held by our troops. Our best sharpshooters 
swept the British camp, and it is no abuse of 
metaphor to say that Burgoyne’s army was 
rimmed around by a circle of fire. 


MY THANKS. 


243 


I found Chudleigh reposing under a tree, 
and told him to get up and start with me at 
once. 

“ What new expedition is this? ” he asked 
discontentedly. “ Can not I be permitted to 
rest a little? I will not try to escape again? ” 

I told him he was about to be exchanged, 
and I had secured the privilege of escorting him 
back to his own people. 

“ That’s very polite of you,” he said. 

I really believe he thought so. 

For the second time I entered Burgoyne’s 
camp under a white flag, and saw all the signs 
of distress I had seen before, only in a sharper 
and deeper form. The wounded and sick were 
more numerous and the well and strong were 
fewer. It was a sorely stricken army. 

But I did not waste much time in such ob- 
servations, which of necessity would have been 
but limited anyhow, as the British had no in- 
tent to let any American wander at will about 
their camp and take note of their situation. 
When we were halted at the outskirts, I asked 
the officer who received us for Albert Van Au- 
ken, who, I said, was a friend of mine and of 
whose safety I wished to be assured. He was 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


244 

very courteous, and in a few minutes Albert 
came. 

Albert was glad to see me, and I to see him, 
and as soon as we had shaken hands I ap- 
proached the matter I had in mind. 

“ Madame Van Auken, your mother, and 
your sister, are they well, Albert? ” I asked. 

“ Very well, the circumstances considered,” 
replied Albert, “ though I must say their quar- 
ters are rather restricted. You can see the 
house up there; they have been living for the 
last three or four days and nights in its cellar, 
crowded up with other women, with a hospital 
beside them, and the cannon balls from your 
army often crashing over their heads. It’s 
rather a lively life for women.” 

“ Can’t I see your sister, Mistress Cather- 
ine? ” I asked. “ I have something to say to 
her about Chudleigh.” 

“ Why, certainly,” he replied. “ Kate will 
always be glad to see an old playmate like you, 
Dick.” 

He* was so obliging as to go at once and 
fetch her. She looked a little thin and touched 
by care, but the added gravity became her. She 
greeted me with gratifying warmth. We had 


MY THANKS. 


245 

stepped a little to one side, and after the greet- 
ings, I said, indicating Chudleigh: 

“ I have brought him back as sound and 
whole as he was the day he started on this 
campaign.” 

“ That must be very pleasant to Captain 
Chudleigh,” she said with a faint smile. 

“ I saved him from a possible death too,” 
I said. 

“ Captain Chudleigh’s debt of gratitude to 
you is large,” she replied. 

“ I have taken great trouble with him,” I 
said, “ but I was willing to do it all on your 
account. I have brought him back, and I make 
him a present to you.” 

She looked me squarely in the eyes for a 
moment, and said, as she turned away: 

“ Dick, you are a fool! ” 

Which I call abrupt, impolite, ungrateful, 
and, I hope, untrue. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE BATTLE OF THE GUNS. 

I returned to our camp downcast over the 
failure of good intentions, and convinced that 
there was no reward in this life for self-sacri- 
fice. Perhaps if I were to fall in the fighting 
and Kate Van Auken were to see my dead body, 
she would be sorry she had called me a fool. 
There was comfort in this reflection. The idea 
that I was a martyr cheered me, and I recovered 
with a rapidity that was astonishing to myself. 

An hour’s rest was permitted me before my 
return to active duty, and I had some oppor- 
tunity to observe our tactics, which I concluded 
must be most galling to the enemy. Some 
clouds of smoke hung over both encampments, 
and the crackling of the rifles of the sharp- 
shooters and the occasional thud of the cannon 
had become so much a matter of course, that we 

scarce paid attention to them. 

246 


THE BATTLE OF THE QUNS. 


247 


When my hour of leisure was over I was 
assigned to duty with an advanced party close 
up to Burgoyne’s camp. It was much to my 
pleasure that I found Whitestone there too. 
It was but natural, however, that we should 
be often on duty together, since we belonged 
to the same company. 

Whitestone, according to his habit, had 
made himself comfortable on the ground, and, 
there being no law against it, was smoking the 
beloved pipe, which like its master was a vet- 
eran of many campaigns. From his lounging 
place he could see a portion of the British 
camp. 

“ Mr. Shelby,” said he, “ this is like sitting 
fey and watching a wounded bear die, and giving 
hiril a little prod now and then to hurry the 
death along.” 

So it was, and it was no wonder the sol- 
diers grew impatient. But I was bound to con- 
fess that the policy of our generals was right, 
and by it they would win as much and save 
more life. 

There was nothing for me to do, and I kept 
my eyes most of the time on the house Albert 
had pointed out to me. Crouched in its cellar 


248 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


I knew were scared women and weeping chil- 
dren, and doubtless Kate and her mother were 
among them. Once a cannon ball struck the 
house and went through it, burying itself in 
the ground on the other side. I held my breath 
for a little, but I was reassured by the thought 
that the women and children were out of range 
in the cellar. 

Thus the day passed in idleness as far as I 
was concerned. I spent it not unpleasantly in 
gossip with Whitestone. The nightfall was 
dark, and under cover of it the British ran a 
^twenty-four pounder forward into a good posi- 
tion and opened fire with it upon some of our 
advanced parties. My first warning of the at- 
tack was a loud report much nearer to us than 
usual, followed by a hissing and singing if 
something were stinging the air, and then a 
solid chunk of iron struck the earth with a 
vengeful swish a few yards from us. A cloud 
of dirt was spattered , in our faces, stinging us 
like bees. 

When we had recovered from our surprise, 
and assured ourselves we were neither dead nor 
dying, we made remarks about chance, and the 
probability that no other cannon ball would 


THE BATTLE OF THE GUNS. 


249 


strike near us during the campaign. Just as 
the last of such remarks were spoken we heard 
the roar and heavy boom, followed by the rapid 
swish through the air, and the cannon ball 
struck a full yard nearer to us than the first. 
We used vigorous and, I fear, bad language, 
which, however, is a great relief sometimes, es- 
pecially to a soldier. 

“ They've pushed that gun up too close to 
us,” said Whitestone. “ It's among those trees 
across there. The darkness has helped them.” 

We were of opinion that the men with the 
gun had our range — that is, of our particular 
party — and we thought it wise and healthy to 
lie down and expose the least possible surface. 
I awaited the third shot with much curiosity 
and some apprehension. 

Presently we saw a twinkle, as of a powder 
match, and then a great flash. The ball shrieked 
through the air, and with a shiver that could 
not be checked we waited for it to strike. True 
to its predecessors, it followed nearly the same 
course and smashed against a stone near us. 
One of our men was struck by the rebounding 
of fragments, of iron or stone, and severely 
wounded. It was too dark to see well, but his 


250 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


groans spoke for him. Whitestone and I took 
hold of him and carried him back for treat- 
ment. While we were gone, one man was slain 
and another wounded in the same way. In 
the darkness that British cannon had become 
a live thing and was stinging us. Some of 
our best sharpshooters were chosen to slay the 
cannoneers, but they could aim only by the 
flash of the gun, and the men loading it had 
the woods to protect them. The bullets were 
wasted, and the troublesome hornet stung again 
and again. 

We were perplexed. Our pride as well as 
our safety was concerned. The idea came to 
me at last. 

“ To fight fire with fire is an old saying,” 
I remarked to Whitestone. 

“ What do you mean? ” he asked. 

“ Why, we must have a cannon too,” I 
said. 

He understood at once, fcTT Whitestone is 
not a dull man. He volunteered to get the 
cannon and I went along with him to help. We 
presented our claim with such urgency and elo- 
quence that the artillery officer to whom we 
went was impressed. Also he was near enough 


THE BATTLE OF THE GUNS. 


251 

to see how damaging and dangerous the Brit- 
ish cannon had become. 

“ You can have Old Ty,” he said, “ and be 
sure you make good use of him.” 

I did not understand, but Whitestone did. 
He knew Old Ty. He explained that Old 
Ty, which was short for “ Old Ticonderoga,” 
was a twenty-four pounder taken at Ticon- 
deroga early in the war by Ethan Allen and his 
Green Mountain Boys. It had done so much 
service and in so many campaigns that the gun- 
ners had affectionately nicknamed the veteran 
Old Ty in memory of the fortress in which 
he had been taken. 

“ I’ve seen Old Ty,” said Whitestone. 
“ He’s been battered about a good lot, but he’s 
got a mighty bad bark and a worse bite.” 

In a few minutes the groaning of wheels and 
the shout of the driver to the horses announced 
the approach of Old Ty. I stood aside with 
respect while the gun passed, and a grim and 
fierce old veteran he was, full worthy the respect 
of a youngster such as I felt myself to be. 

Old Ty was of very dark metal, and there 
were many scars upon him where he had re- 
ceived the blows of enemies of a like caliber. 


17 


252 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


A wheel which had been struck by a ball in the 
heat of action was bent a trifle to one side, and 
Old Ty rolled along as if he were a little 
lame and didn’t mind it. His big black muz- 
zle grinned at me as if he were proud of his scars, 
and felt good for many more. 

Just behind the gun walked a man as ugly 
and battered as Old Ty himself. 

“ That’s Goss, the gunner,” said White- 
stone. “ He’s been with Old Ty all through 
the war, and loves him better than his wife.” 

On went the fierce and ugly pair like two 
who knew their duty and loved it. 

The night, as usual after the first rush of 
darkness, had begun to brighten a bit. We 
could see the British cannon, a long, ugly piece, 
without waiting for its flash; yet its gunners 
were protected so well by fresh-felled trees and 
a swell of the earth that our sharpshooters could 
not pick them off. They were in good position, 
and nothing lighter than Old Ty could drive 
them out of it. 

The British saw what we were about and 
sought to check us. They fired more rapidly, 
and a cannon ball smashed one of the horses 
hitched to Old Ty almost to a pulp. But 


THE BATTLE OF THE GUNS. 


253 

Goss sprang forward, seized one wheel, and 
threw the veteran into place. 

Old Ty had a position much like that of 
his antagonist, and Goss, stroking his iron com- 
rade like one who pets an old friend, began to 
seek the range, and take very long and careful 
looks at the enemy. Lights along the line of 
either army flared up, and many looked on. 

“ Lie flat on the ground here,” said White- 
stone to me. “ This is going to be a pitched 
battle between the big guns., and you want to 
look out.” 

I adopted Whitestone’s advice, thinking 
it very good. Old Ty’s big black muzzle * 
grinned threateningly across at his antagonist, 
as if he longed to show his teeth, but waited 
the word and hand of his comrade. 

“There goes the bark of the other! ” cried 
Whitestone. 

The bright blaze sprang up, the British can- 
non roared, and hurled his shot. The mass of 
iron swept over Old Ty and buried itself in 
the hillside. 

“ Much bark, but no bite,” said White- 
stone. 

Old Ty, black and defiant, was yet silent. 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


254 

Goss was not a man who hurried himself or his 
comrade. We waited, breathless. Suddenly 
Goss leaned over and touched the match. 

Old Ty spoke in the hoarse, roaring voice 
that indicates much wear. One of the felled 
trees in the British position was shattered, and 
the ball bounded to the right and was lost to 
sight. 

“ A little bite,” said Whitestone, “ but not 
deep enough.” 

Old Ty smoked and grew blacker, as 
if he were not satisfied with himself. They 
swabbed out his mouth and filled it with iron 
again. 

Where I lay I could see the muzzles of both 
cannon threatening each other. The Briton 
was slower than before, as if he wished to be sure. 
Goss continued to pat his comrade by way of 
stirring up his spirit. That did not seem to 
me to be needed, for Old Ty was the very 
fellow I would have chosen for such a furious 
contention as this. 

The two champions spoke at the same 
instant, and the roar of them was so great 
that for the moment I thought I would be 
struck deaf. A great cloud of smoke enveloped 


THE BATTLE OF THE GUNS. 


255 

either cannon, but when it raised both sides 
cheered. 

Old Ty had received a fresh blow on his 
lame wheel, and careened a little farther to 
one side, but the Briton was hit the harder of 
the two. His axle had been battered by Old 
Ty’s ball, and the British were as busy as bees 
propping him up for the third raid. 

“ Rather evenly matched,” grunted White- 
stone, “ and both full of grit. I think we shall 
have some very pretty sport here.” 

I was of Whitestone’s opinion. 

I could see Goss frowning. He did not like 
the wound Old Ty had received, and stroked 
the lame wheel. “ Steady, old partner,” I heard 
him say. “ We’ll beat ’em yet.” 

All at once I noticed that the lights along 
the line had increased, and some thousands were 
looking on at the battle of the two giants. 

“ Old Ty must win! ” I said to Whitestone. 
“ We can’t let him lose.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Whitestone, shaking 
his head. “ A battle’s never over till the last 
shot’s fired.” 

The Briton was first, and it was well that we 
were sheltered. The ball glanced along Old 


256 THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

Ty’s barrel, making a long rip in the iron, 
and bounded over our heads and across the 
hill. 

“ Old Ty got it that time,” said White- 
stone. “ That was a cruel blow.” 

He spoke truth, and a less seasoned veteran 
than Old Ty would have been crushed by it. 
There was a look of deep concern on Goss’s 
face as he ran his hand over the huge rent in 
Old Ty’s side. Then his face brightened a 
bit, and I concluded the veteran was good for 
more hard blows. 

The blow must have had some effect upon 
Old Ty’s voice or temper. At any rate, when 
he replied his roar was hoarser and angrier. 
A cry arose from the British ranks, and I 
saw. them taking away a body. Old Ty had 
tasted blood. But the British cannon was as 
formidable as ever. 

“ The chances look a bit against Old Ty,” 
commented Whitestone, and I had to confess 
to myself, although with reluctance, that it 
was so. 

Goss was very slow in his preparations for 
the fourth shot. He had the men to steady 
Old Ty, and he made a slight change in the 


THE BATTLE OF THE GUNS. 


257 

elevation. Again both spoke at the same time, 
and Old Ty groaned aloud as the mass of 
British iron tore along his barrel, ripping out 
a gap deeper and longer than any other. 
His own bolt tore off one of the Briton’s 
wheels. 

“ The Englishman’s on one leg,” said White- 
stone, “ but Old Ty’s got it next to the heart. 
Chances two to one in favor of the English- 
man.” 

I sighed. Poor Old Ty! I could not bear 
to see the veteran beaten. Goss’s hard, dark 
face showed grief. He examined Old Ty 
with care and fumbled about him. 

“ What is he doing? ” I asked of White- 
stone, who lay nearer the gun. 

“ I think he’s trying to see if Old Ty will 
stand another shot,” he said. “ He’s got some 
big rips in the barrel, and he may leave in all 
directions when the powder explodes.” 

Old Ty in truth was ragged and torn like 
a veteran in his last fight. The Briton had lost 
one wheel and was propped up on the side, but 
his black muzzle looked triumphant across the 
way. 

The British fired again and then shouted 


258 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


in triumph. Old Ty, too, had lost a wheel, 
which the shot had pounded into old iron. 

“ Old Ty is near his end,” said White- 
stone. “ One leg gone and holes in his body 
as big as my hat; that’s too much! ” 

Old Ty was straightened up, and Goss 
giving the word, the shot was rolled into his 
wide mouth. Then the gunner, as grim and 
battered as his gun, took aim. Upon the in- 
stant all our men rushed to cover. 

Goss touched the match, and a crash far out- 
doing all the others stunned us. With the noise 
in my ears and the smoke in my eyes I knew not 
what had happened. But Whitestone cried 
aloud in joy. Rubbing my eyes clear, I looked 
across to see the effect of the shot. I saw only 
a heap of rubbish. Old Ty’s bolt had smote 
his enemy and blown up the caisson and the 
cannon with it. 

Then I looked at Old Ty to see how he 
bore his triumph, but his mighty barrel was 
split asunder and he was a cannon no longer, 
just pieces of old iron. 

Sitting on a log was some one with tears on 
his hard, brown face. It was Goss, the gunner, 
weeping over the end of his comrade. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE MAN FROM CLINTON. 

At one o’clock in the morning I went off 
duty, and at five minutes past one o’clock I had 
begun a very pleasant and healthful slumber. 
At eight o’clock I awoke, and found White- 
stone sitting by a little fire cooking strips of 
bacon, some of which he was so kind as to 
give me. 

Whitestone’s face was puffed out in the man- 
ner of one who has news to tell, and I was 
quite willing that he should gratify himself by 
telling it to me. 

“ What is it, Whitestone? ” I asked. “ Has 
the British army surrendered while' I slept? ” 

“ No,” said Whitestone, “ and it may not 
surrender after all.” 

“ What! ” I exclaimed. 

“ It’s just as I say,” said Whitestone, light- 
259 


26 o 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


ing the inevitable pipe. “ It may not surrender 
after all.” 

“ What has happened? ” 

Whitestone’s cheeks continued to swell with 
a sense of importance. 

u Clinton’s advancing with seven thousand 
men,” he said. 

“ That’s nothing,” I said. “ Clinton’s been 
advancing for weeks, and he never gets near us.” 

“ But he is near us this time, sure enough,” 
said the sergeant very seriously. 

I was still unbelieving, and looked my un- 
belief. 

“ It’s as I say,”, resumed the sergeant; 
“ there is no doubt about it. Just after day- 
light this morning some skirmishers took a 
messenger from Clinton, who bore dispatches 
announcing his arrival within a very short time. 
It seems that Clinton is much farther up the 
river than we supposed, and that his army is 
also much larger than all our reckonings made 
it. I guess that with re-enforcements he got 
over the fright we gave him.” 

This in truth sounded like a matter of mo- 
ment. I asked Whitestone if he was sure of 
what he reported, and he said the news was all 


THE MAN FROM CLINTON. 2 6l 

over the camp. I must confess that I felt as if 
it were a personal blow. I had looked upon the 
capture of Burgoyne as a certainty, but the 
arrival of Clinton with seven thousand fresh 
men would be sure to snatch the prize from us. 
It looked like a very jest of fate that we should 
lose our spoil after all our labors and battles. 

“ What’s to be done, Whitestone? ” I asked 
gloomily. 

“ In a case of this kind,” he replied, “ I’m 
glad that I’m a humble sergeant, and not a gen- 
eral. Let the generals settle it. Take another 
piece of the bacon; it’s crisp and fresh.” 

“ Have you seen this captured messenger? ” 
I asked. 

“No,” replied Whitestone. “ They have 
him in a tent over yonder, and I think the 
officers have been busy with him, trying to 
pump him.” 

As soon as I finished the bacon I walked 
about the camp to see if I could learn anything 
further concerning the matter, in which attempt 
I failed. I saw, however, its effect upon the 
army, which vented its feelings largely in the way 
of swearing. The soldiers expected we would 
have to leave Burgoyne and turn southward to 


262 THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

fight Clinton. Some said luck was always 
against us. 

I was interrupted in my stroll by a message 
from my colonel to come at once. I hurried 
to him with some apprehension. He had ex- 
pressed his high confidence in me of late, and, 
as I have said before, these high confidences 
bring hard duties. 

But the matter was not so difficult as I had 
expected. 

“ Mr. Shelby,” said the colonel, “ we took 
prisoner this morning a man bearing important 
dispatches from Clinton to Burgoyne — you 
have heard about it, doubtless; it seems to be 
known all over the camp — and I am directly 
responsible for his safe keeping for the time 
being. He is in that tent which you can see 
on the hillside. Take three men and guard him. 
You need not intrude upon him, though; he 
seems to be a very gentlemanly fellow.” 

Of course I chose Whitestone as one of my 
three men, and we began our guard over the 
tent. I understood from the gossip Whitestone 
had picked up that the generals were debating 
what movement to make after the important 
news obtained, and probably they would exam- 


THE MAN FROM CLINTON. 


263 


ine the prisoner again later on. It was not at all 
likely that the prisoner, placed as he was in the 
center of our camp, could escape, but there 
might be reasons for keeping him close in the 
tent; so our watch was very strict. 

Nevertheless, Whitestone and I chatted a 
bit, which was within our right, and tried to 
guess what would be the result of the cam- 
paign if we had to turn southward and fight 
Clinton, with Burgoyne on our rear. Doubtless 
some of these comments and queries were heard 
by the prisoner, whose feet I could see sticking 
out in front of the tent flap, but whose body 
was beyond our view. But I did not see that it 
mastered, and we talked on with freedom. Once 
I saw the prisoner’s feet bob up a bit, as if he 
suffered from some kind of nervous contraction, 
but I made very slight note of it. 

The debate of the generals lasted long, and 
I inferred, therefore, that their perplexity was 
great. Whitestone and I ceased to talk, and as 
I, having command of the little detachment, 
was under no obligation to parade, musket on 
shoulder, I sat down on a stone near the flap 
of the tent and made myself as comfortable as 
I could. From my position I could still see 


264 THE SUN 0F SARATOGA. 

the prisoner’s boots, a substantial British pair, 
of a kind that we could envy, for most of the 
time we were nearly bare of foot, sometimes 
entirely so. 

The camp was peaceful, on the whole. The 
rattle of drum's, the sound of voices, rose in the 
regular, steady fashion which becomes a hum. 
The prisoner was silent — unusually silent. He 
seemed to have no curiosity about us, and to 
prefer to remain in the shadow of his tent. In 
his place, I would have had my head out look- 
ing at everything. I noticed presently the atti- 
tude of his boots. They were cocked up on 
their heels, toes high in the air. I inferred im- 
mediately that the man was lying flat on his 
back, which was not at all unreasonable, as he 
probably needed rest after traveling all night. 

The hum of the camp became a murmur, 
and it was answered by a slighter murmur from 
the tent. The prisoner was snoring. He was 
not only flat upon his back, but asleep. I felt 
an admiration for the calmness of mind which 
could turn placidly to slumber in such an excit- 
ing situation. A curiosity about this prisoner, 
already born in me, began to grow. He was 
most likely a man worth knowing. 


THE MAN FROM CLINTON. 265 

I concluded that I would take a look at the 
sleeping Englishman despite my orders. I did 
not mention my idea to Whitestone, because 
I thought he might object, and hint it was 
none of my business, to go in. I stooped down 
and entered the tent, which was a small 
one. As I surmised, the prisoner was lying 
upon his back and was fast asleep. The 
snore, which became much more assertive 
now that I had entered the tent, left no doubt 
about his slumbers. Yet I could not see his 
face, which was far back under the edge of the 
tent. 

I reached back and pulled the tent-flap still 
farther aside, letting in a fine flow of sunlight. 
It fell directly upon the face of the prisoner, 
bringing out every feature with the distinct- 
ness of carving. 

My first emotion was surprise; my second, 
wrath; my third, amusement. 

The prisoner was Albert Van Auken. 

I do not claim that mine is the acutest mind 
in the world; but at a single glance I saw to 
the bottom of the whole affair, and the desire 
to laugh grew very strong upon me. It had 
not been twenty-four hours since I was talk- 


266 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


in g to Albert Van Auken in Burgoyne’s camp, 
and here he was a prisoner in our camp, bring- 
ing dispatches from Clinton, down the river, to 
Burgoyne. I believe some things — not all 
things. 

I perceived that the bright light shining 
directly into Albert’s eyes would soon awaken 
him. In truth he was yawning even then. I 
sat down in front of him, closing my arms 
around my knees in the attitude of one who 
waits. 

Albert yawned prodigiously. I guessed that 
he must have been up all the previous night 
to have become .so sleepy. He would have re- 
lapsed into slumber, but the penetrating streak 
of sunshine would not let him. It played all 
over his face, and inserting itself between his 
eyelids, pried them open. 

Albert sat up, and, after the manner of man, 
rubbed his eyes. He knew that some one was 
in the tent with him, but he could not see who 
it was. I had taken care of that. I was in the 
dark and he was in the light. 

“ Well, what is it you wish? ” he asked, after 
he had finished rubbing his eyes. 

I guessed that he took me for one of the 


THE MAN FROM CLINTON. 


267 


general officers who had been examining him. 
I have a trick of changing my voice when I 
wish to do so, and this was one of the times 
when I wished. 

“ I am to ask you some further questions 
in regard to the matters we were discussing 
this morning,” I said. 

“Well!” said Albert impatiently, as if he 
would like to be done with it. 

“ According to the dispatches which we 
secured when we took you,” I said, “ Sir Henry 
Clinton was very near at hand with a large 
army.” 

“ Certainly,” said Albert, in a tone of great 
emphasis. 

“ It is strange,” I said, “ that we did not 
hear of his near approach until we took you this 
morning. Our scouts and skirmishers have 
brought us no such news.” 

“ It is probably due to the fact, general,” 
said Albert politely, “ that we captured your 
scouts and skirmishers as we advanced north- 
ward. Our celerity of movement was so great 
that they could not escape us.” 

“ That was remarkable marching, in truth,” 
I said admiringly. “You Englishmen are as 
18 


268 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


rapid in movement as you are strenuous in 
battle.” 

“ Thank you, general,” said Albert, with 
complacent vanity. I felt a strong inclination 
to kick him. I hate Tories, and, in particular, 
those who would have people think they are 
Englishmen. 

“ I believe you said Sir Henry Clinton had 
several thousand men with him,” I resumed. 

“ I did not say it,” replied Albert, “ but 
most unfortunately it was revealed in the dis- 
patches which you captured upon me. I may 
add, however, that the number is nearer eight 
thousand than seven thousand.” 

I understood the impression he wished to 
create, and I was willing to further his humor. 

“ Eight thousand with Sir Henry Clinton,” 
I said, as if musing, “ and Burgoyne has six 
thousand; that makes fourteen thousand, all 
regular troops, thoroughly armed and equipped 
otherwise. We can scarce hope to capture 
both armies.” 

“ Not both, nor one either,” said Albert in 
derision. “ As a matter of fact, general, I think 
you will have some difficulty in looking after 
your own safety.” 


THE MAN FROM CLINTON. 


269 

“ By what manner of reasoning do you ar- 
rive at that conclusion? ” asked I, wishing to 
lead him on. 

“ Oh, well, you know what British troops 
are,” said Albert superciliously; “ and when 
fourteen thousand of them are together, I 
imagine that troubles have arrived for their 
enemies.” 

My inclination to kick him took on a sud- 
den and violent increase. It was with the most 
extreme difficulty that I retained command 
over my mutinous foot. 

“ Perhaps it is as you assert,” I said musing- 
ly. “ In fact there would seem to be no doubt 
that it is best for us to let Burgoyne go, and 
retreat with what rapidity we can.” 

“ Of course! of course! ” said Albert eagerly. 
“ That is the only thing you can do.” 

Now a desire to laugh instead of a desire 
to kick overspread me; but I mastered it as 
I had the other. 

“ I wish to tell you, however,” I said, as- 
suming my politest manner, “ and in telling 
you I speak for the other American generals, 
that however little we are pleased with the 
news you bear, we are much pleased with the 


270 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


bearer. We have found you to be a young 
gentleman of courtesy, breeding, and discern- 
ment. ’’ 

“ Thank you,” said Albert in a tone of much 
gratification. 

“ And,” I resumed, “ we have arrived at a 
certain conclusion ; I may add also that we have 
arrived at that conclusion quickly and unani- 
mously.” 

“ What is it? ” asked Albert with eager in- 
terest. 

“ That we have met many graceful and ac- 
complished liars in our time, but of them all 
you are the most graceful and accomplished,” 
I said with grave politeness, my tongue linger- 
ing over the long words. 

Albert uttered something which sounded 
painfully and amazingly like an oath, and sprang 
to his feet, his face flushing red with anger or 
shame, I am uncertain which. 

He raised his hand as if he would strike me, 
but I moved around a little, and the light in its 
turn fell on my face. He uttered another cry, 
and this time there was no doubt about its 
being an oath. He looked at me, his face grow- 
ing redder and redder. 


THE MAN FROM CLINTON. 


271 

“ Dick,” he said in a tone of deep reproach, 
“ I call this devilish unkind.” 

“ The unkindness is all on your side, Albert,” 
I retorted. “ You have given me more trouble 
in this campaign than all the rest of Burgoyne’s 
army — if that fellow Chudleigh be counted out 
— and here I have you on my hands again.” 

“Who asked you to come into my tent?” 
said Albert angrily. “ I heard you outside a 
while ago, but I did not think you would come 
in.” 

“ That was when your feet bobbed up,” I 
said. “ You must retain more control over 
them, Albert. Now that I think of it, and trace 
things to their remote causes, that movement 
first stirred in me the curiosity to see your face, 
and not your feet only. Have them amputated, 
Albert.” 

“ What do you mean to do? ” he asked with 
an air of resignation. 

“ Mean to do! ” I said in a tone of surprise. 
“ Why, I mean to retreat with all the remainder 
of our army as quickly as we can in order to get 
out of the way of those fourteen thousand in- 
vincible British veterans who will soon be united 
in one force.” 


272 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ Now stop that, Dick,” said Albert en- 
treatingly. “ Don’t be too hard on a fellow.” 

“ All right,” I replied; “ go to sleep again.” 

Without further ado I left the tent, and 
found Whitestone waiting outside in some 
anxiety. 

“ You stayed so long,” he said, “ I thought 
perhaps the fellow had killed you.” 

“ Not by any means as bad as that,” I re- 
plied. “ I found him to be a very pleasant 
young man, and we had a conversation long 
and most interesting.” 

“ About what? ” Whitestone could not keep 
from asking. 

“ About many things,” I replied, “ and one 
thing that I learned was of special importance.” 

“ What was that? ” 

“ How to send Clinton and his eight thou- 
sand men back below Albany, hold Burgoyne 
fast, and continue the campaign as it was be- 
gun.” 

“ That’s a pretty big job,” said Whitestone, 
“ for one man, and that one, too, rather young 
and not overweighted with rank.” 

“ Maybe you think so,” I said with lofty in- 
difference. “ But I can do it, and, what is more, 


THE MAN FROM CLINTON. 


273 


I will prove to you that I can. You can stay 
here while I go down to the council of generals 
and tell them what to do.” 

Not giving Whitestone time to recover, I 
stalked off in a state of extreme dignity. 


CHAPTER XX. 

NOT A DROP TO DRINK. 

I pressed into the council of the generals 
with an energy that would not be denied, also 
with some strength of the knee, as an officious 
aid-de-camp can testify even at this late day. 
As a matter of course, my information was of 
such quality that everybody was delighted with 
me and praise became common. Again I felt 
as if I ought to be commander in chief. Again 
I had sufficient self-sacrifice to keep the thought 
to myself. 

As I left the room they were talking about 
the disposition of the prisoner who had tried 
to trick us into precipitate flight and the aban- 
donment of our prey. This put an idea into 
my head, and I told it to a colonel near the 
door, who in his turn told it to their high 

mightinesses, the generals, who were wise 
274 


NOT A DROP TO DRINK. 


275 

enough to approve of it, and, in truth, to indorse 
it most heartily. 

I suggested that Albert be sent back to Bur- 
goyne with the most gracious compliments of 
our commander in chief, who was pleased to hear 
the news of the speedy arrival of Clinton, which 
would greatly increase the number of prisoners 
we were about to take. I asked, as some small 
reward for my great services, that I be chosen 
to escort Albert into the British camp and de- 
liver the message. That, too, was granted 
readily. 

“You can deliver the message by word of 
mouth,” said one of the generals; “ it would be 
too cruel a jest to put it in writing, and perhaps 
our dignity would suffer also.” 

I was not thinking so much of the jest as of 
another plan I had in mind. 

I found Whitestone keeping faithful watch 
at the tent. 

“ Well,” said he, with a croak that he meant 
for a laugh of sarcasm, “ I suppose the gen- 
erals fell on your neck and embraced you with 
delight when you told them what to do.” 

“They did not fall on my neck, but cer- 
tainly they were very much delighted,” I said; 


2 y6 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ and they are going to do everything I told 
them to do.” 

“ That’s right,” said Whitestone. “ Keep 
it up. While you’re spinning a yarn, spin a good 
one.” 

“ It’s just as I say,” I said, “ and as the first 
proof of it, I am going to take the prisoner as 
a present to Burgoyne.” 

Turning my back on the worthy sergeant, 
I entered the tent, and found Albert reclining 
on a blanket, the expression of chagrin still on 
his face. To tell the truth, I did not feel at all 
sorry for him, for, as I have said before, Albert 
had been a great care to me. 

“ Get up,” I said with a roughness intended, 
“ and come with me.” 

“ What are they going to do with me? ” 
asked Albert. “ They can’t hang me as a spy; 
I was taken in full uniform.” 

“ Nobody wants to hang you, or do you any 
other harm,” I said. “ In your present lively 
and healthful condition you afford us too much 
amusement. We do not see how either army 
could spare you. Put your hat on and come 
on.” 

He followed very obediently and said noth- 


NOT A DROP TO DRINK. 


277 

ing. He knew I held the whip hand over 
him. 

“ Sergeant/’ I said to Whitestone, “ you 
need not watch any longer, since the tent is 
empty.” 

Then I took Albert away without another 
word. I had it in mind to punish Whitestone, 
who was presuming a little on his age and ex- 
perience and his services to me. 

I really could not help laughing to myself 
as I went along. This would make the third 
time I had entered Burgoyne’s camp as an es- 
cort — once with Chudleigh, once with Albert’s 
sister and mother, and now with Albert. I was 
fast getting to be at home in either camp. I be- 
gan to feel a bit of regret at the prospect of Bur- 
goyne’s speedy surrender, which would break up 
all these pleasant little excursions. 

Albert showed surprise when he saw us leav- 
ing our camp and going toward Burgoyne’s. 

“ What are you going to do? ” he asked. 

“ Nothing, except to take you back where 
you belong,” I said. “We don’t care to be 
bothered with you.” 

“ You hold me rather cheaply,” he said. 

“ Very,” I replied. 


278 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


The return of Albert was an easy matter. 
I met a colonel, to whom I delivered him and 
also the message from our council. The colonel 
did not seem to know of Albert’s intended mis- 
sion, for the message puzzled him. I offered 
no explanations, leaving him to exaggerate it 
or diminish it in the transmission as he pleased. 

When I turned away after our brief colloquy, 
I saw Kate Van Auken, which was what I had 
hoped for when I asked the privilege of bring- 
ing Albert back. Her paleness and look of care 
had increased, but again I was compelled to 
confess to myself that her appearance did not 
suffer by it. There was no change in her 
spirit. 

“ Have you become envoy extraordinary 
and minister plenipotentiary between the two 
camps, Dick? ” she asked in a tone that seemed 
to me to be touched slightly with irony. 

“Perhaps,” I replied; “I have merely brought 
your brother back to you again, Mistress 
Catherine.” 

“ We are grateful.” 

“ This makes twice I’ve saved him for you,” 
I said, “ and I’ve brought Chudleigh back to 
you once. I want to say that if you have any 


NOT A DROP TO DRINK. 


279 

other relatives and friends who need taking care 
of, will you kindly send for me? ” 

“ You have done much for us,” she said. 
“ There is no denying it.” 

“ Perhaps I have,” I said modestly. “ When 
I presented Chudleigh to you, you called me a 
fool. I suppose you are willing now to take it 
back.” 

“ I was most impolite, I know, and I’m 
sorry ” 

“ Oh, you take it back, then? ” 

“ I’m sorry that I have to regret the ex- 
pression, for, Dick, that is what you are.” 

There was the faintest suspicion of a smile 
oh her face, and I could not become quite as 
angry as I did on the first occasion. But she 
showed no inclination to take the harsh word 
back, and perforce I left very much dissatis- 
fied. 

When I returned to our camp I found much 
activity prevailing. It seemed to be the in- 
tention of our leaders to close in and seize the 
prize without further delay. No attack was to 
be made upon Burgoyne’s camp, but the circle 
of fire which closed him in became broader 
and pressed tighter. The number of sharp- 


28 o 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


shooters was doubled, and there was scarce a 
point in the circumference of Burgoyne’s camp 
which they could not reach with their rifle balls, 
while the British could not attempt repayment 
without exposing themselves to destruction. 
Yet they held out, and we did not refuse them 
praise for their bravery and tenacity. 

The morning after my return I said to 
Whitestone that I gave the British only three 
days longer. Whitestone shook his head. 

“ Maybe,” he said, “ and maybe not so long. 
They’ve been cut off at a new point.” 

I asked him what he meant. 

“ Why, the British are dying of thirst,” he 
said. “ They are in plain sight of the Hudson — 
in some places they are not more than a few 
yards from it — but our sharpshooters have 
crept up till they can sweep all the space be- 
tween the British camp and the river. The 
British can’t get water unless they cross that 
strip of ground, and every man that’s tried to 
cross it has been killed.” 

I shuddered. I could not help it. This was 
war — war of the kind that wins, but I did not 
like it. Yet, despite my dislike, I was to take 
part in it, and that very soon. It was known 


NOT A DROP TO DRINK. 


281 


that I was expert with the rifle, and I was or- 
dered to choose a good weapon and join a small 
detachment that lay on a hill commanding the 
narrowest bit of ground between the British 
camp and the river. About a dozen of us were 
there, and I was not at all surprised to find 
Whitestone among the number. It seemed 
that if I went anywhere and he didn’t go too, 
it was because he was there already. 

“ I don’t like this, Whitestone. I don’t 
like it a bit,” I said discontentedly. 

“ You can shoot into the air,” he said, “ and 
it won’t be any harm. There are plenty of 
others who will shoot to kill.” 

I could see that Whitestone was right about 
the others. Most of them were from the 
mountains of Virginia and Pennsylvania, back- 
woodsmen and trained Indian fighters, who 
thought it right to shoot an enemy from am- 
bush. In truth this was a sort of business they 
rather enjoyed, as it was directly in their line. 

As I held some official rank I was in a cer- 
tain sense above the others, though I was not 
their commander, each man knowing well what 
he was about and doing what he chose, which 
was to shoot plump at the first human being 


282 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


that appeared on the dead line. A thin, active 
Virginian had climbed a tree in order to get 
a better aim, and shot with deadly effect from 
its boughs. 

I sat down behind a clump of earth and ex- 
amined my rifle. 

“ Look across there,” said Whitestone, 
pointing to the open space. 

I did so, and for the second time that day 
I shuddered. Prone upon the ground were 
three bodies in the well-known English uni- 
form. A pail lay beside one of them. I knew 
without the telling of it that those men had 
fallen in their attempt to reach the water which 
flowed by — millions and millions of gallons — 
just out of reach. 

“ IPs rather dull now; nobody’s tried to pass 
the dead line for an hour,” said Bucks, a man 
from the mountains of western Pennsylvania, 
with a face of copper like an Indian’s. 

“ Did any one succeed in passing? ” I asked. 

“ Pass! ” said Bucks, laughing. “ What do 
you reckon we’re here for? No sirree! The 
river is just as full as ever.” 

There was an unpleasant ring in the man’s 
voice which gave me a further distaste for the 


NOT A DROP TO DRINK. 


283 


work in hand. Our position was well adapted 
to our task. The hill was broken with low 
outcroppings of stone and small ridges. So 
long as we exercised moderate caution we could 
aim and shoot in comparative safety. Bucks 
spoke my thoughts when he said: 

“ It’s just like shooting deer at a salt lick.” 

But the dullness continued. Those red-clad 
bodies, two of them with their faces upturned 
to the sun, were a terrible warning to the others 
not to make the trial. Two of our men, finding 
time heavy, produced a worn pack of cards and 
began to play old sledge, their rifles lying be- 
side them. 

The waters of the broad river glittered in the 
sun. Now and then a fish leaped up and shot 
back like a flash, leaving the bubbles to tell 
where he had gone. The spatter of musketry 
around the circle of the British camp had be- 
come so much a habit that one noticed it only 
when it ceased for the time. The white rings 
of smoke from the burnt powder floated away, 
peaceful little clouds, and, like patches of snow 
against the blue sky, helped out the beauty 
of an early autumn day. 

All of us were silent except the two men 
19 


284 THE SUN 0F SARATOGA. 

playing cards. I half closed my eyes, for the sun 
was bright and the air was warm, and gave my- 
self up to lazy, vague thought. I was very 
glad that we had nothing to do, and even should 
the time to act come, I resolved that I would 
follow Whitestone’s hint. 

The two men playing cards became ab- 
sorbed in the game. One threw down a card 
and uttered a cry of triumph. 

“ Caught your Jack! ” 

“All right,” said the other; “it’s only two 
for you, your low, Jack against my high, game. 
I’m even with you.” 

I became interested. I was lying on my 
back with my head on a soft bunch of turf. I 
raised up a little that I might see these players, 
who could forget such a business as theirs in 
a game of cards. Their faces were sharp and 
eager, and when they picked up the cards I 
could tell by their expression whether they 
were good or bad. 

“ Four and four,” said one, “ and this hand 
settles the business. Five’s the game.” 

The other began to deal the cards, but a 
rifle was fired so close to my ear that the sound 
was that of a cannon. The echo ceasing, I 


NOT A DROP TO DRINK. 285 

heard Bucks and the man in the tree swearing 
profusely at each other. 

“ He’s mine, I tell you! ” said Bucks. 

“ It was my bullet that did it ! ” said the 
man in the tree with equal emphasis. 

“ I guess it was both of you,” put in White- 
stone. “ You fired so close together I heard 
only one shot, but I reckon both bullets 
counted.” 

This seemed to pacify them. I looked over 
the little ridge of earth before us, and saw a 
fourth red-clad body lying on the greensward 
near the river. It was as still as the others. 

“ He made a dash for the water,” said White- 
stone, who caught my eye, “ but the lead over- 
took him before he was halfway.” 

The two men put aside their cards, busi- 
ness being resumed; but after this attempt 
we lay idle a long time. Bucks, who had an in- 
fernal zeal, never took his eyes off the green- 
sward save to look at the priming of his gun. 

“ I could hit the mark at least twenty yards 
farther than that,” he said to me confidently. 

Noon came, and I hoped I would be relieved 
of this duty, but it was not so. It seemed that 
it would be an all-day task. The men took 


286 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


some bread and cold meat from their pouches 
and we ate. When the last crumb fell, a man 
appeared at the edge of the greensward and 
held up his hands. Bucks’s finger was already 
on the trigger of his gun, but I made him stop. 
The man’s gesture meant something, and, more- 
over, I saw that he was unarmed. I called also 
to the Virginian in the tree to hold his fire. 

I thought I knew the meaning of the panto- 
mime. I took my rifle and turned the muzzle 
of it to the earth so conspicuously that the 
Englishman, who was holding up his hands, 
could not fail to see. When he saw, he ad- 
vanced boldly, and laying hold of one of the 
bodies dragged it away. He returned for a 
second, and a third, and then a fourth, and 
when he had taken the last he did not come 
back again. 

“ That’s a good job well done! ” I said with 
much relief when the last of the fallen men had 
been taken away. It was much pleasanter to 
look at the greensward now, since there was 
no red spot upon it. I said to Whitestone 
that I thought the English would not make 
the trial again. 

“ They will,” he replied. “ They must have 


NOT A DROP TO DRINK. 


287 

water, and maybe they don’t know even yet 
what kind of riflemen we have.” 

Whitestone was right. In a half hour a 
man appeared protecting his body with a heavy 
board as long as himself. He moved with slow- 
ness and awkwardness, but two or three bullets 
fired into the board seemed to make no im- 
pression. 

“ At any rate, if he reaches the river and 
gets back all right it’s too slow a way to slake 
the thirst of many,” said Whitestone in the tone 
of a philosopher. 

Bucks’s face puffed out with anger. 

“They mustn’t get a drop!” he said with 
the freedom of a backwoodsman. “ We’re to 
keep ’em from it; that’s what we’re here for.” 

The man looked fierce in his wrath and I 
did not reprove him, for after all he was right, 
though not very polite. 

The man in the tree fired, and a tiny patch 
of red cloth flew into the air. The bullet had 
cut his clothes, but it could not reach the man, 
who continued to shamble behind his board to- 
ward the river. 

“ I’m afraid we won’t be able to stop him,” 
I said to Bucks. 


288 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


Bucks had crawled to the edge of the hill 
and was watching with the ferocity and rancor 
of a savage for a chance to shoot. Often 
I think that these men who live out in the 
forests among the savages learn to share their 
nature. 

I could not see because of the board, but I 
guessed that the man carried a bucket, or pail, 
in one hand. In truth I was right, for present- 
ly a corner of the pail appeared, and it was 
struck instantly by a bullet from the rifle of the 
man in the tree. 

“ At any rate, we’ve sprung a leak in his pail 
for him,” said Whitestone. 

I began to take much interest in the matter. 
Not intending it, I felt like a hunter in pursuit 
of a wary animal. My scruples were forgotten 
for the moment. I found myself sighting along 
the barrel of my rifle seeking a shot. The Eng- 
lishman had ceased for me to be a human being 
like myself. I caught a glimpse of a red-coat 
sleeve at the edge of the board and would have 
fired, but as my finger touched the trigger it 
disappeared and I held back. Whitestone was 
at my shoulder, the same eagerness showing on 
his face. The man in the tree had squirmed 


NOT A DROP TO DRINK. 


289 

like a snake far out on the bough, and was seek- 
ing for a shot over the top of the board. 

The Englishman trailed himself and his pro- 
tecting board along, and was within a yard of 
the water. Over the earthwork at the edge 
of the British camp the men were watching 
him. His friends were as eager for his success 
as we were to slay him. It was a rivalry that 
incited in us a stronger desire to reach him with 
the lead. In such a competition a man’s life 
becomes a very small pawn. For us the Eng- 
lishmen had become a target, and nothing more. 

Bucks was the most eager of us. He showed 
his teeth like a wolf. 

The Englishman reached the water and 
stooped over to fill his pail. Bending, he for- 
got himself and thrust his head beyond the 
board. With a quickness that I have never 
seen surpassed, Bucks threw up his rifle and 
fired. The Englishman fell into the water as 
dead as a stone, and, his board and his pail fall- 
ing too, floated off down the stream. 

I uttered a cry of triumph, and then clapped 
my hand in shame over my mouth. The water 
pulling at the Englishman’s body took it out 
into the deeper stream, and it too floated away. 


290 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


The zest of the chase was gone for me in an in- 
stant, and I felt only a kind of pitying horror. 
Never before in my life had I been assigned 
to work so hateful. 

Bucks crawled back all a-grin. I turned my 
back to him while he received the praise of the 
man in the tree. It was evident to me that 
nobody could cross the dead line in the face of 
such sharpshooters, and I hoped the British saw 
the fact as well as we. 

Our enemies must have been very hard 
pressed, for after a while another man tried 
the risk of the greensward. He came out only 
a few feet, and when a bullet clipped right under 
his feet he turned and fled back, which drew 
some words of scorn from Bucks, but which 
seemed to me to be a very wise and timely 
act. 

I thought that this would be the last trial, 
but Whitestone again disagreed with me. 

“ When men are burning up with thirst and 
see a river full of water running by, they’ll try 
mighty hard to get to that river,” he said. 

The sergeant’s logic looked good, but for 
a full hour it failed. I felt sleepy, again, but 
was aroused by the man in the tree dropping 


NOT A DROP TO DRINK. 


291 

some twigs, one of which struck me in the 
face. 

“ They’re going to try it again,” he said. 

As I have remarked, we could see a small 
earthwork which the British had thrown up, 
and whoever tried to pass the dead line would 
be sure to come from that point. The man 
in the tree had a better view than we, and I 
guessed that he saw heads coming over the 
earthwork. 

Among our men was a slight bustle that 
told of preparation, a last look at the flints, a 
shoving forward for a better position. I looked 
at my own rifle, but I resolved that I would 
not allow zeal to overcome me again. I would 
remember Whitestone’s suggestion and fire 
into the air, leaving the real work to Bucks and 
the others, who would be glad enough to do 
it. I saw the flutter of a garment at the earth- 
work and some one came over. The man on 
the bough above me uttered a cry, to which I 
gave the echo. All the blood in me seemed 
to rush to my head. 

Kate Van Auken, carrying a large bucket 
in her hand, stepped upon the greensward and 
walked very calmly toward the river, not once 


292 THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 

turning her eyes toward the hill where she 
knew the sharpshooters lay. Behind her came 
a strapping, bare-armed Englishwoman, who 
looked like a corporal’s wife, and then four more 
women, carrying buckets or pails. 

Bucks raised his rifle and began to take aim. 
I sprang up and dashed his rifle aside. I am 
afraid I swore at him too. I hope I did. 

“ What are you about, Bucks? ” I cried. 
“ Would you shoot a woman? ” 

“ Mr. Shelby,” he replied very coolly, 
“ we’re put here to keep the British from that 
water, man or woman. What’s a woman’s life 
to the fate of a whole army? You may outrank 
me, but you don’t command me in this case, 
and I’m going to shoot.” 

I stooped down and with a sudden move- 
ment snatched the gun from his grasp. 

“ Don’t mind it, Bucks,” said the man in 
the tree; “ I’ll shoot.” 

“ If you do,” I cried, “ I’ll put a bullet 
through you the next moment.” 

“ And if you should chance to miss,” said 
Whitestone, coming up beside me, “ I’ve a bul- 
let in my gun for the same man.” 

The man in the tree was no martyr, nor 


NOT A DROP TO DRINK. 


293 


wanting to be, and he cried out to us that he 
would not shoot. In proof of it he took his gun- 
stock from his shoulder. The other men did 
nothing, waiting upon my movements. 

“ Bucks,” I said, “ if I give you your gun, do 
you promise not to shoot at those women? ” 

“ Do you take all the responsibility? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Give me my gun. I won’t use it.” 

I handed him his rifle, which he took in si- 
lence. I don’t think Bucks was a bad man, 
merely one borne along by an excess of zeal. 
He has thanked me since for restraining him. 
The women, Kate still leading them, filled their 
buckets and pails at the river and walked back 
to the camp with the same calm and even step. 
Again and again was this repeated, and many 
a fever-burnt throat in the besieged camp must 
have been grateful. I felt a glow when I sent a 
messenger to our colonel with word of what 
I had done and he returned with a full indorse- 
ment. How could our officers have done other- 
wise? 

I was sorry I could not get a better view of 
Kate Van Auken’s face. But she never turned 
it our way. Apparently she was ignorant of 


294 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


our existence, though, of course, it was but a 
pretense, and she knew that a dozen of the best 
marksmen in America lay on the hill within 
easy range of her comrades and herself. 

“ There’s but one thing more for you to do, 
Mr. Shelby,” whispered Whitestone. 

“ What’s that?” 

“ Save, the life of madame, her mother. 
She’s the only one yet unsaved by you.” 

“ I will, Whitestone,” I replied, “ if I get 
the chance.” 

After a while, though late, the women 
ceased to come for the water. Presently the 
sun went down and that day’s work was done. 

My belief that Chudleigh was a very for- 
tunate man was deepening. 


CHAPTER XXL 

THE .MESSENGER. 

I rose early the next morning, and my first 
wish was for duties other than keeping the 
enemy away from the water. I found White- 
stone sitting on his camp blanket and smoking 
his pipe with an expression of deep-seated con- 
tent. 

“ What are we to do to-day? ” I asked him, 
for Whitestone usually knew everything. 

“ I haven’t heard of anything,” he replied. 
“ Maybe we’ll rest. We deserve it, you and I.” 

Whitestone has some egotism, though I do 
not undertake to criticise him for it. 

It seemed that he was right, for we were 
like two men forgotten, which is a pleasant 
thing sometimes in the military life. Finding 
that we had nothing else to do, we walked to- 
ward the British camp, which, as a matter of 

course, was the great object of curiosity for all 
295 


296 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


of us, and sat down just within the line of our 
sharpshooters. The zeal and activity of these 
gentlemen had relaxed in no particular, and 
the crackle of their rifles was a most familiar 
sound in our ears. 

We had a good position and could note the 
distressed look of the British camp. The bag- 
gage wagons were drawn up with small refer- 
ence to convenience and more to defense. The 
house, the cellar of which I knew to be in- 
habited by women, children, and severely 
wounded men, was so torn by cannon balls that 
the wind had a fair sweep through it in many 
places. Some of the soldiers walking about 
seemed to us at the distance to be drooping 
and dejected. Yet they made resistance, and 
their skirmishers were replying to ours, though 
but feebly. 

While I was watching the house I saw three 
or four officers in very brilliant uniforms come 
out. After a few steps they stopped and stood 
talking together with what seemed to be great 
earnestness. These men were generals, I was 
sure; their uniforms indicated it, and I guessed 
they had been holding conference. It must be 
a matter of importance or they would not stop 


THE MESSENGER. 


297 


on their way from it to talk again. I directed 
Whitestone’s attention, but he was looking al- 
ready. 

“ Something’s up,” I said. “ Maybe they are 
planning an attack upon us.” 

“ Not likely,” he replied. “ It may be some- 
thing altogether different.” 

I knew what was running through his mind, 
and I more than half agreed with him. 

The generals passed into a large tent, which 
must have been that of Burgoyne himself; but 
in a minute or two an officer came and took 
his way toward our camp. He was a tall, fine 
fellow, rather young, and bore himself with 
much dignity. Of a certainty he had his 
finest uniform, for he was dressed as if for the 
eye of woman. His epaulets and his buttons 
flashed back the sun’s rays, and his coat was a 
blaze of scarlet. 

The officer drew the attention of other eyes 
than Whitestone’s and mine. In the British 
camp they seemed to know what he was about, 
or guessed it. I could see the people drawing 
together in groups and looking at him, and 
then speaking to each other, which always in- 
dicates great interest. An officer with gray 


298 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


hair whom he passed looked after him, and 
then covered his face with his hands. 

The officer came on with a steady and regu- 
lar step to the earthwork, where he paused for 
a moment. 

“ It may be,” said Whitestone, “ that you 
and I were the first to see the beginning of a 
great event.” 

The officer stepped upon the earthwork, 
raising a piece of white cloth in his hand. The 
fire of the sharpshooters ceased with such sud- 
denness that my ear, accustomed to the sound, 
was startled at the lack of it. 

“ I think you’ve guessed right,” I said to 
Whitestone. 

He made no reply, but drew a deep breath 
at his pipe stem, and then let the smoke escape 
in a long white curl. 

Some of the sharpshooters stepped from 
covert and looked curiously at the approaching 
officer. 

“ Whitestone,” I said, “ since there is no 
committee of reception, let us make ourselves 
one.” 

He took his pipe from his mouth and fol- 
lowed me. The murmur of the camps, the 


THE MESSENGER. 


2 99 


sound made by the voices of many men, in- 
creased. The officer came rapidly. Whitestone 
and I walked very slowly. He saw us, and, not- 
ing my subaltern’s uniform, took me for one 
dispatched to meet him. 

When he came very near I saw that his face 
was frozen into the haughty expression of a 
man who wishes to conceal mortification. He 
said at once that he wished to see our com- 
mander in chief, and without question White- 
stone and I took him to our colonel, who 
formed his escort to the tent of our commander 
in chief. Then we returned to our former place 
near the outposts. 

“ How long do you think it will take to ar- 
range it? ” I asked Whitestone. 

“ A day or two, at least,” he said. “ The 
British will talk with as long a tongue as they 
can, hoping that Clinton may come yet, and, 
even if he don’t, there will be many things to 
settle.” 

Whitestone was right, as he so often was. 
The generals soon met to talk, and we subal- 
terns and soldiers relaxed. The rifles were put 
to rest, and I learned how little we hate our 
enemies sometimes. I saw one of our senti- 


20 


300 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


nels giving tobacco to a British sentinel, and 
they were swapping news over a log. Some 
officers sent in medicines for the wounded. No 
longer having fear of bullets, I walked up to 
the British outworks and looked over them into 
the camp. A Hessian sentinel shook his gun 
at me and growled something in his throaty 
tongue. I laughed at him, and he put his gun 
back on his shoulder. I strolled on, and some 
one hailed me with a familiar voice. It was Al- 
bert Van Auken. 

“ Hello, Dick! ” said he. “ Have you folks 
surrendered yet? How long are these pre- 
liminaries to last? ” 

He was looking quite fresh and gay, and, if 
the truth be told, I was glad to see him. 

“ No,” I replied, “ we have not surrendered 
yet, and we may change our minds about it.” 

“ That would be too bad,” he replied, “ after 
all our trouble — after defeating you in battle, 
and then hemming you in so thoroughly as we 
have done.” 

“ So it would,” I said. “ Sit down and talk 
seriously. Are your mother and sister well? ” 

“ Well enough,” he replied, “ though badly 
frightened by your impertinent cannon balls.” 


THE MESSENGER. 


301 

He sat down on a mound of earth thrown 
up by British spades, and I came quite close to 
him. Nobody paid any attention to us. 

“ How goes it with Captain Chudleigh? ” I 
asked. 

“Poor Chudleigh!” said Albert. “He’s 
lying in the cellar over there, with a ball through 
his shoulder sent by one of your infernal sharp- 
shooters.” 

“ Is it bad? ” I asked. 

“ Yes, very,” he replied. “ He may live, 
or he may die. Kate’s nursing him.” 

Well, at any rate, I thought, Chudleigh is 
fortunate in his nurse; there would have been 
no such luck for me. But I kept the thought 
to myself. 

“ Albert,” I asked, “ what did your officers 
say to you when I brought you back? ” 

“ Dick,” he replied, “ let’s take an oath of 
secrecy on that point even from each other.” 

For his part he kept the oath. 

I could not withhold one more gibe. 

“ Albert,” I asked, “ what do you Tories say 
now to the capture of an entire British army 
by us ragged Continentals? ” 

He flushed very red. 


302 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


“ You haven’t done it,” he replied. “ Clin- 
ton will come yet.” 

We talked a little further, and then he went 
back into his camp. 

The talk of the generals lasted all that day 
and the next, and was still of spirit and endur- 
ance on the third. We soldiers and subalterns, 
having little to do, cultivated the acquaintance 
of the enemy whom we had fought so long. 
Some very lively conversations were carried on 
across the earthworks, though, of course, we 
never went into their camp, nor did they come 
into ours. 

On the third day, when I turned away after 
exchanging some civilities with a very courte- 
ous Englishman, I met a common-looking man 
whose uniform was a Continental coat, dis- 
tressingly ragged and faded, the remainder of 
his costume being of gray homespun. He 
nodded as he passed me, and strolled very 
close to the British lines. In fact, he went 
so close that he seemed to me to intend 
going in. Thinking he was an ignorant fel- 
low who might get into trouble by such an 
act, I hailed him and demanded where he was 
going. 


THE MESSENGER. 


303 

He came back, and laughed in a sheepish 
way. 

“ I thought it was no harm,” he said. 

“ I have no doubt you meant none,” I said, 
“ but you must not go into their camp.” 

He bowed very humbly and walked away. 
His submission so ready and easy attracted my 
notice, for our soldiers were of a somewhat in- 
dependent character. I watched him, and no- 
ticed that he walked in the swift, direct man- 
ner of a man who knows exactly where he is 
going. Being a bit curious, and having noth- 
ing else in particular to do, I followed him at a 
convenient distance. 

He moved three or four hundred yards 
around the circle of our camp until he came 
to a place beyond sight of that at which I had 
stood when I hailed him. The same freedom 
and ease of communication between the two 
armies prevailed there. 

My man sauntered up in the most careless 
way, looking about him in the inquisitive fash- 
ion of a rustic soldier; but I noted that his 
general course, however much it zigzagged, 
was toward the British. I came up much closer. 
Pie was within a yard of the British lines and 


304 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


our men were giving him no heed. I felt sure 
that in a few moments more, if no one inter- 
fered, he would be in the British camp. I 
stepped forward and called to him. 

He started in a manner that indicated alarm, 
and, of course, recognized my face, which he 
had seen scarce two minutes before. I asked 
him very roughly why he was trying so hard 
to steal into the British camp. 

“ It’s true,” he said, “ I was trying to. go in 
there, but I have a good excuse.” 

I demanded his excuse. 

“ I have a brother in there, a Tory,” he said, 
“ and I’ve heard that lie’s wounded. Every- 
body says Burgoyne will surrender in a few 
hours, and I thought it no harm to go in and 
see my brother.” 

What he said seemed reasonable. I could 
readily understand his anxiety on his brother’s 
account. He spoke with such an air of sincerity 
that I had no heart to scold him; so I told 
him not to make the attempt again, and if the 
tale that Burgoyne was to surrender in a few 
hours was true, he would not have long to wait. 

Yet I had a small suspicion left, and I de- 
cided to humor it. If there was anything wrong 


THE MESSENGER. 


305 


about the man he would watch me, I knew, after 
two such encounters. I wandered back into 
our camp as if I had nothing on my mind, 
though I did not lose sight of him. Among 
crowds of soldiers there I had the advantage 
of him, for I could see him and he could not 
see me. 

He idled about a while, and then began to 
move around the circle of our camp inclosing 
the British camp. I was glad that I had con- 
tinued to watch him. Either this man was 
overwhelmingly anxious about his brother, or 
he had mischief in mind. I followed him, tak- 
ing care that he should not see me. Thus en- 
gaged, I met Whitestone, who told me some- 
thing, though I did not stop to hold converse 
with him about it, not wishing to lose my man. 

The fellow made a much wider circle than 
before, and frequently looked behind him; but 
he stopped at last and began to approach the 
British line. There was nobody, at least from 
our army, within thirty or forty yards of him 
except myself, and by good luck I was able to 
find some inequalities of the ground which con- 
cealed me. 

A British sentinel was standing in a lazy 


30 6 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


attitude, and my man approached and hailed 
him in a friendly manner. The Englishman re- 
plied in the same tone. 

“ Can I go in there? ” asked the man, point- 
ing to the British camp. 

“ You can go in,” replied the sentinel with 
some humor, “ but you can’t come out again.” 

“ I don’t want to come out again,” replied 
the man. 

“ You chose a curious time to desert,” said 
the sentinel with a sneer, “ but it’s none of my 
business.” 

The man was about to enter, but I stepped 
forward quickly, drawing my pistol as I did so. 
He saw me and raised his hand, as if he too 
would draw a weapon, but I had him under 
the muzzle of my pistol and threatened to 
shoot him if he made resistance. There- 
upon he played the part of wisdom and was 
quiet. 

“ I will take care of this deserter,” I said to 
the English sentinel. 

“ I told him it was none of my business, and 
I tell you the same,” the sentinel said, shrug- 
ging his shoulders. “ We’re not fighting now. 
Only don’t shoot the poor devil.” 


THE MESSENGER. 


307 

“ March ! ” I said to the man, still covering 
him with my pistol. 

“Where?” he asked. 

“ To the little clump of woods yonder,” I 
said. “ I have something to say to you.” 

The fellow had hard, strong features, and 
his countenance did not fall. 

He wheeled about and marched toward the 
wood. I followed close behind, the pistol in 
my hand. I had chosen my course with my 
eyes open. Our people were not near, and we 
reached the trees without interruption or no- 
tice. In their shelter the man turned about. 

“Well, what do you want?” he asked in 
sullen, obstinate tones. 

“Your papers,” I said; “the message you 
were trying to carry into the British camp.” 

“ I have no papers; I was not trying to 
carry anything into the British camp,” he re- 
plied, edging a little closer. 

“ Keep off ! ” I said, foreseeing his intent. 
“ If you come an inch nearer I will put a pistol 
ball through you. Stand farther away! ” 

He stepped back. 

“ Now give me that letter, or whatever you 
have,” I said. “ It is useless to deny that you 


3°8 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


have something. If you don’t give it to me, 
I will take you into the camp and have you 
stripped and searched by the soldiers. It will 
be better for you to do as I say.” 

Evidently he believed me, for he thrust his 
hand inside his waistcoat and pulled out a 
crumpled letter, which he handed to me. Keep- 
ing one eye on him I read the letter with the 
other eye, and found I had not been deceived 
in my guess. It was from Sir Henry Clinton 
to Sir John Burgoyne, telling him to hold out 
for certain rescue. Sir Henry said he was within 
a short distance of Albany with a strong force, 
and expected to join Sir John soon and help 
him crush all the rebel forces. 

“ This is important,” I said. 

“ Very,” said the man. 

“ It might have changed the fate of the cam- 
paign had you reached General Burgoyne with 
it,” I said. 

“ Undoubtedly it would have done so,” he 
replied. 

“ Well, it wouldn’t.” 

“ That is a matter of opinion.” 

“ Not at all.” 


“ I don’t understand you.” 


THE MESSENGER. 


309 

“ The campaign is ended. Burgoyne sur- 
rendered a half hour ago.” 

Which was true, for Whitestone, with his 
skill in finding out things before other people, 
had told me. 

“ I’m very sorry,” said the man in tones of 
sharp disappointment. 

“ I’m not,” I said. 

“ What do you mean to have done with 
me? ” he asked — “ hanging, or shooting? ” 

I did not admire the man, but I respected 
his courage. 

“ Neither,” I replied. “ You can't do any 
harm now. Be off! ” 

He looked surprised, but he thanked me 
and walked away. 

It was unmilitary, but it has always been 
approved by my conscience, for which I alone 
am responsible. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

CAPITULATIONS. 

I stood with Whitestone and saw the British 
lay down their arms, and, of all the things I saw 
on that great day, an English officer with the 
tears dropping down his face impressed me 
most. 

We were not allowed to exult over our ene- 
mies, nor did we wish it; but I will not deny 
that we felt a great and exhilarating triumph. 
Before the war these Englishmen had denied 
to us the possession of courage and endurance 
as great as theirs. They had called us the de- 
generate descendants of Englishmen, and one of 
their own generals, who had served with us in 
the great French and Indian war, and who 
should have known better, had boasted that with 
five thousand men he could march from one 
end of the colonies to the other. Now, more 

than five thousand of their picked men were 
310 


CAPITULATIONS. 


3 ” 

laying down their arms to us, and as many more 
had fallen, or been taken on their way from 
Canada to Saratoga. 

I repeat that all these things — the taunts 
and revilings of the English, who should have 
been the last to cheapen us — had caused much 
bitterness in our hearts, and I assert again that 
our exultation, repressed though it was, had 
full warrant. Even now I feel this bitterness 
sometimes, though I try to restrain it, for the 
great English race is still the great English 
race, chastened and better than it was then, I 
hope and believe. 

Remembering all these things, I say that we 
behaved well on that day, and our enemies, so 
long as they told the truth, could find no fault 
with us. 

There was a broad meadow down by the river- 
side, and the British, company after company, 
filed into this meadow, laid down their arms, 
and then marched, prisoners, into -our lines. 
Our army was not drawn up that it might look 
on, yet Whitestone and I stood where we could 
see. 

Some women, weary and worn by suspense 
and long watches, came across the meadow, 


312 


THE SUN OF SARATOGA. 


but Kate Van Auken was not among them. I 
guessed that she was by the side of the wounded 
Chudleigh. When the last company was laying- 
down its arms, I slipped away from Whitestone 
and entered the British camp. 

I found Chudleigh in a tent, where they had 
moved him from the cellar that he might get 
the fresher air. Kate, her mother, and an Eng- 
lish surgeon were there. The surgeon had just 
fastened some fresh bandages over the wound. 
Chudleigh was stronger and better than I had 
expected to find him. He even held out his hand 
to me with the smile of one who has met an 
enemy and respects him. 

“ I will be all right soon, Shelby,” he said, 
“ so the doctor tells me, if you rebels know how 
to treat a wounded prisoner well.” 

“ In a month Captain Chudleigh will be as 
well as he ever was,” said the surgeon. 

I was very glad on Kate’s account. Pres- 
ently she walked out of the tent, and I followed 
her. 

“ Kate,” I asked, “ when will the marriage 
occur? ” 

“ What marriage? ” she asked very sharply. 

“ Yours and Chudleigh’s.” 


CAPITULATIONS. 


313 


“ Never! ” 

“What!” I exclaimed in surprise. “Are 
you not going to marry Chudleigh? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Are you not betrothed to him? ” 

“ No. That was my mother’s plan for me.” 
“ Are you not in love with him? ” 

“ No.” 

I was silent a moment. 

“ Kate,” I asked, “what does this mean?” 
“ Dick,” she said, “ I have told you twice 
what you are.” 

Her cheeks were all roses. 

“ Kate,” I said, “‘love me.” 

“I will not!” 

“ Be my betrothed? ” 

“I will not!” 

“ Marry me? ” 

“I will not!” 

Which refusals she made with great em- 
phasis — every one of which she took back. 

She was a woman. 


THE END. 






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